Harry  Lascelles  Burnette 


/ 

/- 


ESH.  DE  CALIF.  LERARY,  LOS  ANGELES 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

BY 
Harry  Lascelles  Burnette 


The  Elohim  said,  Let  us  make  man  in  our  im- 
age, after  our  likeness;  and  let  them  have  domin- 
ion over  all  the  earth.  —Genesis  1 :26 


RANDOLPH,  STERLING  &  VAN  ESS 
CHICAGO,  U.  S.  A. 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Copyright,   1922 
HARRY  LASCELLES  BURNETTE 

Copyright  for  Great  Britain 
Scenario  of  seventy-four  scenes 
Copyrighted  under  title  of 
"The   Bride  of  Yahkima" 
All  rights  reserved  including 
the  translations  into  all  languages 


First  Edition  linotyped  and  printed 
at  Chicago,  U.  S.  A. 


CHAPTER    TITLES 

THE  POPPY  GIRL. 

CRADLE  OF  THE  RANGE. 

SENOR  MIRANDO. 

CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE. 

PUBLICANS  AND  SINNERS. 

JIM  CRAWLEY. 

IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIRE. 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST. 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK. 

THE  OLD  PESSIMIST. 

LOST  FORTUNES. 

"THE  LORD  TAKETH  AWAY. 

THE  COBBLER  KNIGHT. 

A  CROOKED  SPIRIT  IN  A  CROOKED  FRAME. 

IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN. 

"JEHOSAPHAT  !" 

"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  o'  THE  CHURCHES/' 

THE  MAN  OF  MYSTERY. 

BILLY'S  SECRET. 

THE  CONVALESCENT. 

BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES. 

THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG. 

"You  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME/' 

DEVILS. 

A  SHOE-SHOP  SOUL. 

DOMESTIC  SHADOWS. 


CHAPTER  TITLES-Continued 

THE  RESURRECTION. 
A  CALL  FROM  THE  EAST. 
"THEY  SHALL  NOT  HANG!" 
"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH." 
"SIDE  PARTNERS  OF  THE  DEVIL/' 
"WHAT  HAST  THOU  BELIEVED?" 
"FOR  SWALLOW'S  KID!" 
DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY. 
THE  GREATER  GLORY. 

PART  II 

GRIST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  MILL. 
PART  III 

A  BROTHER  IN  ISRAEL. 

DECORATION  DAY. 

NEW  TOWN. 

THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL. 

"JOHN  LIED!" 

CONVERGING  TRAILS. 

JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY. 

THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE. 

THE  GRAY  WOLF. 

THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB. 

THE  MIRACLE  MAN. 

THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL. 

THE  SUN  OF  RIGHTIOUSNESS. 

SONS  OF  ELOHIM. 


CHARACTERS  IN  THE  STORY 

Nancy  Swallow,  Bride  of  Old  Town. 

Pat  Weatherbee,  Her  Father. 

Larrabie  Harding,  Power  in  San  Francisco's  Underworld. 

Dick  Swallow,  Nancy's  Husband. 

Reverend  Obed  Swallow,  His  Father. 

Jack  Osmond,  Dick's  Classmate  at  College. 

"Red  Eye,"  a  Gambler. 

Mike  Gorin,  Harding's  Confederate. 

"Madame  Gorgen,"  of  the  Underworld. 

Luke  Waters,  Pessimist  of  the  Range. 

Laura  Waters,  His  Daughter. 

"Parson"  Raines,  Village  Preacher. 

Janet,  His  Sister. 

Hank  Evans,  Village  Cobbler. 

Billy  Ki-Ki,  Ranger  and  Round-Up  Captain. 

Burke  Channing,  Dick's  Brother-in-law. 

Martha  Channing,  His  Wife,  Dick's  Sister. 

Bessie  Channing,  Their  Daughter. 

Archibald  Gower,  an  Adopted  Son. 

Jim  Crawley,  a  Mining  Prospector. 

Betty,  His  Sweetheart  for  Forty  Years. 

Deland,  Hotel  Keeper. 

Nick  Maloney,  Stage  Driver. 

Max  Bronson  and  Tank  Barlow,  Range  Riders. 

Jerry  Flinn,  a  Cowboy. 

Doctor  Kimball,  Village  Doctor. 

Pat  Remnant,  Grave  Digger. 

Widow  Powers. 

Johnny  Powers,  Her  Son. 

Alec  Lattimer,  Stable  Boy. 

Maidie  Swallow,  Daughter  of  Dick  and  Nancy  Swallow. 

Mrs.  Brown,  Mother  of  a  Boy  by  Dick  Swallow. 

Arthur  Brown,  the  Boy. 

Perry  Heath,  Arthur's  Friend,  a  Cripple. 

Tom  Payne,  an  Evangelist. 

Isaac  Cohen,  a  Lawyer  From  Frisco. 


THE  ELOHIM 

"Jehovah-God  said,  The  man  has  become  like  one  of  us 
to  know  good  and  evil." 

This  is  a  story  of  a  woman's  self-redemption,  and  of 
men — sons  of  the  Elohim  of  heaven. 

In  the  beginning,  millions  of  years  ago,  the  Elohim 
created  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  and  created  man  in  their 
image.  The  Story  of  one  epoch  of  this  earth's  evolution  and 
of  a  creation  by  the  Elohim  is  given  in  the  first  chapter  of 
Genesis,  the  first  Book  of  the  Hebrew  Bible. 

There  is  no  excuse  for  the  mistranslation  of  Elohim  as 
God.  The  Elohim  are  immortalized  men;  and  one  of  them 
is  Jehovah,  the  Arbiter  of  this  Adamite  age,  Progenitor  and 
God  of  the  Semitic  race. 

There  can  be  no  excuse,  now,  for  continuing  this  false 
translation  in  the  first  chapter  of  our  English  Bible,  a  false- 
hood that  for  two-score  centuries  has  dwarfed  man's  con- 
ception of  the  Higher  Worlds,  belittled  the  Great  Plan  and 
Purpose  of  human  lives  and  checked  the  Divine  March  of 
manhood  in  its  evolutionary  course  toward  Godhood  and 
to  Membership  in  the  Heavenly  Council  of  the  Gods. 

The  inspired  Jew,  who  said  to  every  man,  "Ye  shall  be 
perfect,  even  as  your  Father  in  heaven  is  perfect,"  touched 
the  keynote  of  Divine  Evolution.  Every  earthly  man  shall, 
some  day,  become  equal  in  wisdom  and  power  with  the  God 
of  his  age. 


Millions  of  men,  in  the  countless  ages  through  which 
humanity  has  moved  onward  to  Immortality  since  the  Elo- 
him  first  created  this  earth  and  made  man  in  their  image, 
have  reached  the  plane  of  Godhood.  Each  has,  probably, 
taken  his  turn  as  a  Redeemer  of  some  self-pawned  world, 
upon  one  of  the  innumerable  abiding-places  in  the  Infinite 
Realm.  Each  in  his  turn,  perhaps,  has  been  a  Messianic 
Martyr  to  the  finite  fears  and  treacheries  of  mortal  flesh, 
even  as  the  Man  of  Gallilee;  and,  then,  succeeding  to  the 
creative  power  of  bloodless  life,  each  has  taken  a  seat  just 
below  his  Predecessor  in  the  Synagogue  of  Heaven,  in  the 
Congregation  of  the  Gods. 

"Hank  Evans,  "Tank  Barlow,"  "Luke  Waters,"  "Billy 
Ki-Ki,"  "Jim  Crawley,"  "Nick  Maloney,"  "Burke  Channing," 
and  other  clumsy  characters  of  my  story,  groping  through 
the  twilight  shadows  of  this  age,  stunted  and  life-shortened 
by  apostacy  of  church  and  creed,  will  answer,  "Here!" 
when  their  right  names  are  called  by  the  Clerk  of  the  Heav- 
enly Court  of  the  Elohim;  and  each  will  have  an  oppor- 
tunity, in  the  millenniums  to  come,  to  compete  for  a  Mes- 
sianic Mission  to  the  succeeding  races  of  this  earth  after  the 
next  Millennial  Throne  shall  have  judged  the  seed  of 
Jehovah  of  the  Elohim,  and  when  the  Chosen  Son  shall 
have  become,  in  his  turn,  the  Father  of  a  new  race  of  men. 

You,  and  I,  and  all  who  read  my  story,  will  then  learn 
that  the  steps  toward  Heaven  are  not  the  man-made  "hell 
doctrin's  o'  the  churches,"  but  the  hopes  of  Eternal  Life, 
which,  secretly  in  the  hearts  of  all  men,  help  to  overcome. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


TO 
MY  DAUGHTERS 

IRVING  A  CLAIRE 

AND 
ADRIELLE  JEANNE 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  POPPY  GIRL 

Osmond's  mare  stumbled,  throwing  him  rather  hard 
to  the  ground.  Dick  Swallow,  close  behind  on  Jack's 
mustang,  checked  up  short,  just  missing  the  same 
gopher  hole. 

"Chloe's  lamed  herself,"  said  Jack,  testing  the  mare 
a  rod  or  so  by  the  rein.  "I'll  go  back  for  the  cayuse,  and 
overtake  you  before  you  hit  the  beach." 

Dick,  new  in  the  saddle,  pushed  on  in  a  reckless  gallop 
toward  The  Trail  which,  at  that  time  wild  and  rough, 
wound  southwestwardly  from  the  Presidio  to  the  sea. 

Rounding  a  high  sand  ridge,  a  great  field  of  California 
poppies  burst  upon  him,  their  red-gold  flame  stretching 
out  against  back  waves  of  sagebrush  and  chaparral ;  and 
right  in  the  heart  of  this  sea  of  green  and  gold,  was  a 
girl  in  a  green  dress,  with  a  yellow  cap  caught  at  her 
neck  with  yellow  ribbons  and  hanging  below  a  mass  of 
blue-black  hair. 

One  arm  held  a  bunch  of  pulled  flowers,  still  wet 
with  dew ;  and  as  she  passed  on  toward  a  small  black 
horse,  nibbling  at  the  bunch  grass,  nearby,  she  paused, 
now  and  then,  to  whistle  back  to  the  birds. 

Dick  came  to  a  quick  stop,  and  sat  watching  her. 


12  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

She  was  certainly  young,  probably  seventeen,  pleas- 
ingly small,  and,  except  for  the  wealth  of  black  hair,  she 
might  have  seemed  a  part  of  the  poppy  field,  itself. 

She  was  holding  some  of  the  blossoms  to  her  lips. 
Presently,  she  raised  her  head  toward  the  light,  growing 
brighter  and  yellower  in  the  Eastern  sky,  and  began  to 
sing. 

No  words  were  distinguishable,  only  a  series  of  bird- 
like  trills.  She  paused  a  moment,  quiet,  and  from  a 
distance  came  the  call  of  a  field  bird,  a  challenge  to  the 
singer  who  had  disturbed  her  nest. 

Instantly,  went  back  an  answer  from  the  girl's  lips, 
so  nearly  perfect,  the  bird  rose  from  a  clump  of  sage- 
brush and  circled  round  her. 

Dick  clapped  his  hands,  approvingly,  whereupon  she 
stopped,  abruptly,  gave  him  only  a  quick  glance,  and 
went  on.  He  let  his  pony  poke  along  to  the  side  of  the 
other,  leaped  to  the  ground,  and  waited  for  her  to 
come  up. 

"Will  you  pardon  me  for  stopping  at  such  a  pretty 
picture?"  he  asked.  "You  had  me  guessing,  and  the 
birds,  as  well.  But  will  you  tell  me  if  this  trail  goes  to 
the  seashore?" 

The  girl  slipped  a  hand  through  the  loop  of  a  quirt, 
dangling  from  the  saddle  horn,  and  turned  to  look  at 
him  a  moment  from  long  black  lashes.  He  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  bright,  and  as  black  as  her  hair.  Before  he 
could  assist  her,  she  had  a  foot  in  stirrup  and  sprang 
into  her  saddle. 

The  poppies,  held  against  her  bosom,  deepened  the 
red  in  her  cheeks ;  and,  as  she  swung  her  pony  around 
to  his  side,  Dick  had  a  sudden,  selfish  hope  that  Jack 
wouldn't  find  his  cayuse.  He  wasn't  ready  to  share  a 
find  like  this,  even  with  a  college  chum. 


THE  POPPY  GIRL  13 

"Mon  Dieu!  Mais  vous  me  faites  rirel'she  exclaimed, 
with  a  burst  of  laughter.  So  monsieur  has  lost  his  way?" 

Dick's  knowledge  of  French  was  limited,  and  he  was 
glad  she  spoke  English,  too. 

"I  am  glad  madamoiselle  is  so  amused  at  my  help- 
lessness," he  answered.  "But  this  sudden,  glorious  pic- 
ture of  madamoiselle  among  the  other  flowers,  has  made 
me  forget  everything." 

His  words  seemed  to  please  her.  With  girlish  im- 
pudence she  showered  the  poppies  upon  his  bared  head. 

"You  should  know  that  all  these  trails  go  to  the 
sea,"  she  laughed.  "There  is  no  other  place  to  go, 
monsieur,  these  early  mornings." 

"And  you  are  going  there,  madamoiselle  Have  pity 
upon  a  lost  soul,  and  take  me  with  you." 

She  studied  him  a  moment. 

"Yes,  you  may  come  with  me,  if  you  want  to,"  she 
said,  turning  her  pony  southward. 

"Wait!"  he  called  after  her.  "Don't  you  want  these 
flowers  ?" 

"Oh,  we'll  gather  some  more  when  we  come  back." 
Her  horse,  urged  by  a  sharp  sting  of  the  quirt,  bounded 
ahead. 

Leaping  into  his  saddle,  Dick  caught  up  with  her, 
and  their  ponies  galloped,  neck  to  neck,  down  the 
trail. 

"Do  you  live  near  here?"  he  asked,  when  they  had 
slowed  down  to  a  gait  that  enabled  him  to  get  his  breath. 

"Mais,  non!  I  live  in  the  city.  I  ran  off  to  get  a 
whole  day,  alone." 

"I'm  an   intruder,  then,  n'est  ce  pas,  madamoiselle?" 

"Oh,  well,  if  I  don't  like  you,  I'll  send  you  on  your 


14  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

way,"  she  smiled.  She  struck  at  his  horse  with  her  whip, 
and  again  they  were  going  swiftly  along  the  trail. 

"Voila!  The  great  ocean!"  she  cried.  The  Pacific 
lay  before  them  in  grandeur,  challenging  the  clear  blue 
of  the  morning  sky. 

"Beautiful!  Grand!"  said  he.  "What  a  wonderful 
thing  is  the  sea." 

"But  I'm  hungry,"  said  the  girl.  "I've  brought  a  bite 
of  lunch  with  me.  Have  you?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"Not  a  thing." 

"Then  I  will  divide  with  you,  monsieur,  such  as  I 
have  to  give." 

She  slipped  from  her  pony,  and  Dick  followed. 

"Let's  sit  here  in  the  sand,"  she  said,  untying  the 
parcel  she  had  produced  from  somewhere.  She  handed 
him  a  sandwich. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  hungry." 

"Oh,  take  it !  take  it !  and  we'll  get  luncheon  at  some 
ranch  on  the  way  back."  She  threw  herself  upon  the 
sand. 

"Let's  pretend  we're  shipwrecked,"  said  Dick,  after 
he  had  tied  the  horses  to  a  half  buried  spar  and  stretched 
himself  beside  her. 

"And  this  is  an  island,  thousands  of  miles  way  out 
there  in  the  ocean,"  said  she. 

"I'm  curious  about  you,"  said  Dick.  "You're  dif- 
ferent from  other  girls — Eastern  girls.  I'm  from  New 
Hampshire." 

"Where's  that?" 

"Why,  you  know,  New  Hampshire,  one  of  the  New 
England  states." 

"Oh,  yes,  I  met  a  man  who  was  from  there,  from 


THE  POPPY  GIRL  15 

London,  he  said.  It's  a  big  city,  bigger  than  Frisco, 
isn't  it?" 

"Not  England,  New  England." 

"Oh,   pardonne,  mon  ami.    And  why  are  you  here?" 

"Good  Fortune  is  my  good  friend — sometimes.  I 
was  out  for  an  early  ride,  and  I  found  you." 

She  flashed  him  a  look  from  her  dark  eyes. 

"I  meant,  why  are  you  so  far  from  home,  little  boy?" 

"The  Goddess  of  Fate  with  heart  of  stone,  sent  me 
westward.  But  now  I  am  grateful  to  her." 

The  girl  did  not  seem  to  understand. 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  coming  here?"  she  asked, 
absently. 

He  laughed. 

"You  are  interesting,  madamoiselle.  You  brought 
me  here,  your  own  little  self.  But  now,  if  you  want  to 
be  alone,  I  can  go  back."  He  pretended  to  be  in  earnest, 
but  she  pulled  him  down  beside  her. 

"Oh,  I  like  you — or  I  think  I  shall,"  she  said,  bending 
over  to  scoop  up  a  handful  of  sand.  "Yes,  I  think  I  shall 
like  you."  He  watched  her  silently  a  moment,  as  she 
hummed  to  herself  the  song  she  was  singing  in  the  poppy 
field. 

"Will  you  sing  that  for  me? — just  as  though  you 
were  all  alone  and  only  the  birds  were  listening." 

"It  is  'The  Mocking  Bird,'  but  I  do  not  know  the 
words.  I  hear  them  singing  it  at  the — where  I  live.  But 
I  love  the  birds.  Do  you  see  that  meadowlark  over 
on  that  tree?" 

He  saw  no  meadowlark,  nor  any  tree,  where  she 
pointed,  but,  as  he  looked,  she  puckered  her  lips  and 
sent  forth  a  remarkable  imitation  of  these  meadow  birds. 

"Now,  over  there,  is  another,  and  he  will  answer." 


16  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

This  time  the  sound  from  her  lips  seemed  farther  away. 
Then,  as  he  listened,  in  wonderment,  she  imitated  the 
robin,  and  the  cat^bird,  and  the  whippoorvrill. 

"Marvelous!"  he  cried.  "How  did  you  ever  learn 
to  do  that?" 

"When  I  was  a  little  girl  I  lived  among  the  birds. 
They  were  my  only  playmates — besides  the  field  mice, 
and  the  snakes." 

"Snakes!    Are  you  a  snake  charmer,  madatnoiselle?" 

She  smiled;  then  half  closed  her  eyes,  and  laughed, 
metallically. 

"The  snakes  I  charm,  now,  are  not  so  harmless  as 
the  little  ones  of  my  childhood  days." 

He  waited  for  her  to  go  on;  but,  instead,  she  let  her 
fingers  play,  listlessly,  in  the  sand. 

Presently,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  regarded  him, 
curiously. 

"Well?"  she  questioned. 

"I  was  wondering — " 

"About  my  snakes?" 

"About  you.  You  have  so  many  different  selves,  and 
they  all  speak  with  the  same  eyes.  Your  eyes  are 
beautiful,  madamoiselle.  California  should  be  glad  if  there 
are  many  girls  here  like  you." 

"And  I  thought  you  were  going  to  be  so  different 
from  other  men."  There  was  a  touch  of  disappointment 
in  her  voice.  "It  is  not  my  eyes  you  are  thinking  about. 
You  are  wondering  who  I  am,  and  just  how  you  can 
get  me  to  like  you,  and  whether  there  is  someone  else 
I  belong  to — and  a  lot  of  other  things." 

Dick  flushed. 

"I  was  thinking  something  like  that,"  he  admitted. 
"I  was  guessing — " 


THE  POPPY  GIRL  17 

"And  what  were  you  guessing,  monsieur?" 

"That  you  are  an  only  daughter,  and  you've  always 
had  your  own  way;  and  you're  at  a  seminary  here,  in 
Frisco,  with  a  lot  of  girls  you  don't  like;  and  you  wish 
you  could  run  away  and  never  go  back." 

She  let  her  chin  fall  into  her  cupped  hands  and  looked 
off  over  the  blue  water. 

"You  are  right — in  a  way,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I 
don't  like  the  girls — and  I  do  wish — sometimes — I  could 
ride  away — way  off,  thousands  and  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  miles,  and  never  come  back.  Days  like  these — 
when  the  air  is  full  of  voices  calling  you — " 

"Birds,  and  poppies?"  he  suggested. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  eyes  brightening  again,  "but 
you're  a  man ;  you  can't  understand." 

"Oh,  I  guessed  that  much;  and  you  were  talking 
back  to  the  poppies,  and  answering  the  birds." 

"But  there's  something  you  haven't  guessed,"  she 
said,  in  a  serious  tone.  "I  am  dreadfully  selfish.  I  don't 
think  of  anyone  else,  at  all.  I  do  have  about  everything 
I  wish,  and  I  can  do  about  as  I  please.  None  of  the 
other  girls  has  a  pony.  They  never  get  away  for  a  whole 
day,  as  I  do." 

"No,  you  haven't  proved  your  case,"  said  he.  "You're 
not  selfish,  for  you've  divided  your  last  bite  with  a 
hungry  stranger;  and  you're  giving  him  a  part  of  a 
happy  day  you'd  set  aside  for  yourself." 

She  laughed  up  into  his  eyes. 

"You  foolish  boy!"  said  she,  with  a  warm  touch  of 
confidence,  "I'm  not  giving  up  anything;  and  I'm  glad 
you  came.  I  am  really  beginning  to  like  you." 

"Tell  me  about  your  school,"  he  urged,  "what  you 


18  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

are  studying,  and  what  you  are  going  to  do  when  you're 
through  ?" 

She  smiled,  peculiarly. 

"Oh,  let  us  talk  about  something  more  interesting 
than  that,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  about  yourself." 

"About  me  there's  not  one  interesting  thing,"  said 
Dick.  "My  name  is  Richard  Swallow — commonly  called 
Dick;  and  I'm  just  from  college — where  I  flunked,  too, 
in  a  way,  but  I'll  not  finish,  now.  I'm  visiting  a  friend 
here,  at  Frisco,  Jack  Osmond,  who  was  my  roommate  at 
college.  Then,  I'm  off  to  carve  my  name  and  fame  in 
the  sands  of  Washington.  I  have  a  brother-in-law  there, 
Burke  Channing,  with  a  big  ranch.  He  married  my 
sister,  Martha;  and  the  gov'nor  says  if  I'll  settle  down 
he'll  start  me  in  something.  Dad's  a  preacher,  back 
home,  and  he  says  I'm  going  to  be  an  exception  to  the 
general  rule." 

"And  what  is  the  general  rule?" 

"That  a  parson's  son  usually  goes  the  same  direction 
as  whistling  girls  and  crowing  hens." 

"And  where  is  that?"  she  asked,  opening  wide  her 
eyes. 

"To  the  devil!" 

"Oh !"  she  said,  with  a  burst  of  laughter,  falling  back 
and  rolling  over  full  length  in  the  sand,  one  foot  poised 
in  the  air.  "I  am  a  whistling  girl,  and  you're  a  preacher's 
son." 

"I  hadn't  thought  of  that,"  he  said.  "For  once  in 
my  life  I'm  glad  I  am  a.  preacher's  son.  We  are  on  the 
same  trail." 

"But  you're  going  to  be  an  exception  to  the  rule." 

"Suppose,"  said   Dick,  half  seriously,  "suppose  you 


THE  POPPY  GIRL  19 

run  away  and  go  to  Washington,  too.  We  would  both 
be  safe/' 

"No,"  she  said,  quizzing  the  look  in  his  eyes,  "the 
devil  would  follow  us  there.  He'd  get  us  both.  But, 
really,  when  are  you  going  north?" 

"Not  for  a  long  time,  now,  I  think.  Am  I  going  to 
see  you  again?" 

She  formed  an  hour-glass  with  her  hands  and  spilled 
the  fine  sand  slowly  through  her  fingers. 

"May  I  call  at  the  school — this  evening?"  he  asked, 
after  waiting  for  her  to  speak. 

"No,  no,  you  can't  do  that!"  she  cried,  hastily.  "You 
see — I — I  am  not  supposed  to  know  any — any  strangers. 
I  might  not  get  out  again  alone."  The  toes  of  her  riding 
boots  were,  alternately,  pecking  the  sand. 

"Then  will  you  meet  me  again,  tomorrow,  for  a  ride  ?" 

"I  can  do  that — say  at  the  same  poppy  field.  But  you 
must  promise  me  you  will  never  try  to  find  me  in  the 
city.  Will  you  promise?" 

"If  I  have  to,  yes.  But  I'd  like  to  take  you  to  a  show, 
or  somewhere.  Can't  we  compromise  a  little?" 

She  shook  her  head,  convincingly. 

"It'll  be  more  fun,  this  way,"  she  urged.  "Let's  play 
there's  a  great  mystery  about  us,  and  that  someone  is 
trying  to  find  out;  and  we've  a  great  secret  between  just 
us  two." 

She  clapped  her  hands  gleefully. 

Dick's  heart  was  beating,  rapidly. 

"Make  it  a  little  earlier,  then.  You'll  have  to  be  back 
for  your  lessons.  Why  not  make  it  in  the  evening?" 

"No,  no.  I  couldn't  make  it  any  other  time,  honestly 
I  can't.  But,  maybe  next  Sunday,  if  you  are  here  till 
then,  we  can  go  way  out  into  the  real  country,  where 
there's  a  river,  and  birds,  and  field  mice,  and — " 


20  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"And  snakes,"  he  reminded  her;  "and  perhaps  the 
devil." 

"A  man  told  me  once,"  said  she,  "that  the  devil  is  a 
great  serpent  going  about  the  world  to  swallow  people. 
He  was,  I  think  the  girls  said,  a  preacher.  'Did  you 
ever  see  him?'  I  asked.  'No,'  said  he,  'You  can't  see  him. 
You  only  see  where  he's  been.'  'Well,'  said  I,  Tm  not 
afraid  of  him;  for  I  played  with  little  ones  when  I  was 
knee  high  to  a  grasshopper.'  I  meant  little  snakes ;  but, 
of  course,  he  didn't  know  that." 

"You're  a  wonder!"  Dick  exclaimed.  "If  I  had 
known  you  were  here,  I'd  have  come  West  long  ago. 
God  knows,  I  wish  I  had!" 

The  quick  change  in  his  voice  brought  her  eyes  to 
his. 

"What  was  it?"  she  asked,  low-voiced  and  suddenly 
sympathetic. 

"Oh,  it's  all  over,  now.  Nothing  I  can  tell  you  about, 
really.  I've  come  West  to  forget  it — 'to  redeem'  myself, 
Dad  says.  But,  you  see,  I  was  a  preacher's  son." 

A  womanly  expression  came  into  the  girl's  eyes  as 
she  studied  his  face.  He  was  smooth-shaven,  with  a 
fair  skin,  blue  eyes,  and  wavy  brown  hair,  wind-tossed 
about  his  temples;  rather  good  looking.  Even  to  her, 
scarcely  more  than  a  girl,  and  unsophisticated,  as  he 
thought  her,  his  sensual  lips  and  slightly  receding  chin 
confirmed  his  intimation.  She  was  sorry  for  him. 

He  saw  it  in  her  eyes. 

"Don't  pity  me,"  he  said.    "I  can  pay  the  price." 

Neither  spoke  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Isn't  life  a  dreadful  thing,  anyway?"  she  began,  again 
taking  up  little  handfuls  of  sand  and  letting  it  spill 
through  her  fingers.  "There  is  so  much  planning  to  do 


THE  POPPY  GIRL  21 

things  and  never  a  chance.  I  have  strange  longings,  at 
times,  but  I  never  tell  them  to  anyone.  I  have  thought 
that  the  greatest  thing  in  life  would  be,  to  see  the  worst 
man  in  all  the  world  become  the  best  man  in  the  world — 
and  feel  that  I  had  something  to  do  with  it." 

"Or  the  worst  woman  become  the  best,"  Dick 
amended. 

"I  don't  think  about  women.  I  don't  know  any  I 
would  call  good.  I've  hated  women.  But  isn't  life  a 
queer  thing?" 

"It  certainly  is,"  he  agreed.  "And  one  of  the  queer 
things  about  my  life  is,  that  I  get  hungry.  Can't  we 
find  a  place  to  get  some  breakfast — near  here,  some- 
where ?" 

"There's  a  ranch  within  half  an  hour's  ride,  where  I 
stop,  occasionally,  on  the  North  Trail,  not  much  out  of 
our  way  back." 

They  shook  the  sand  out  of  their  clothes,  mounted 
the  ponies  and  rode  north  along  the  hard,  smooth  beach. 

The  sun  was  high  and  hot  over  the  California  sands 
when  Dick  and  the  girl  had  finished  luncheon  and 
started  cityward.  When  they  reached  San  Miguel,  she 
drew  rein. 

"You  have  only  to  follow  this  road,  now,  and  you'll 
not  get  lost.  I  am  going  to  leave  you  here.  Au  revoir, 
monsieur." 

Before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  pulled  off  into  the 
sagebrush  and  was  galloping  swiftly  over  the  wasteland. 


CHAPTER  II 
A  CRADLE  OF  THE  RANGE 

Dick  was  at  the  poppy  field  before  the  sun  showed 
over  the  Eastern  highlands,  but  the  girl  was  already 
there,  and  had  gathered  a  great  armful  of  flowers. 

When  she  saw  him,  she  threw  the  poppies  to  the 
ground,  and  waved  a  greeting. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  squaw  skirt  of  buckskin,  with 
breeches  and  leggings.  Binding  her  hair  was  a  band  of 
red  and  yellow  beads.  One  white,  slender  feather  curved 
across  a  temple.  Her  ears  were  hidden  by  loops  of  hair, 
brought  forward  and  netted  close;  while  turquoise  ear- 
rings dangled  almost  to  her  shoulders.  About  her  waist 
was  a  silken  sash  of  Mexican  make,  woven  in  many 
colors. 

She  waited  for  him,  and  then,  with  a  quick  spring, 
was  astride  her  pony,  challenging  him  to  overtake  her. 

"Why  do  you  pick  all  those  flowers,  only  to  throw 
them  away?"  Dick  queried,  when  they  were  sprawled 
out  on  the  ocean  sand,  with  a  tempting  breakfast  spread 
out  before  them — egg  sandwiches,  olives,  and  grapes, 
that  he  had  stuffed  into  the  saddle  pouch,  and  to  which 
she  had  added  two  or  three  pickles,  some  cakes,  and 
some  Chinese  nuts. 


A  CRADLE  OF  THE  RANGE  23 

She  took  the  few  blossoms  from  her  sash  and  pressed 
them  to  her  cheek,  caressingly. 

"They  have  been  naughty,  of  late,"  she  said.  "I 
have  asked  them  for  something  I  want  very  much,  and 
the  fairies  do  not  come." 

"I  don't  understand,"  he  said. 

"These  are  my  childhood  friends  of  long  ago,"  she 
said,  smiling  at  his  bewilderment.  "I  was  born  in  a  big 
tent,  in  the  Western  desert,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw, 
to  remember,  was  a  poppy  field." 

"Born  in  a  tent?"  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

"My  father  was  a  railroad  builder.  They  were  build- 
ing the  Central  Pacific  to  Sacramento.  One  day  the 
camp  was  moved,  and  we  settled  beside  a  great  field 
of  poppies.  My  mother  had  died — all  alone,  in  that  old 
tent,  miles  and  miles  from  a  town  or  a  house ;  only  sand 
and  sagebrush,  and  snakes,  and  mice.  Maman  had  told 
me  about  these  poppy  fields,  for  she  had  lived  here  in 
Frisco,  when  a  girl,  and  had  a  pony,  just  as  I  have.  I 
think  my  father  was  kind  to  her.  It  was  after  he  took 
Mary  that  he  began  to  drink." 

"Took  Mary?"  said  Dick,  perplexedly. 

"Mary  was  the  camp  cook  when  maman  died.  Then 
she  became  my  mother.  Mon  Dieu!  but  I  hated  her. 
She  was  big  and  rough  and — ugh !  the  smell — always  of 
grease  and  smoke.  She  would  call  me  awful  names. 
Then  I  remembered  how  maman  had  said,  when  she 
was  a  girl  she  would  tell  the  poppies  what  she  wanted 
most,  and  the  poppies  would  send  the  fairies  to  do  every- 
thing for  her.  So,  afterward,  when  I  wanted  to  cry, 
I  told  my  poppies  that  I  hated  Mary,  and  the  old  tent, 
and  everybody — everyone  but  daddy — and  I  told  them 
the  things  I  wanted  to  do." 


24  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"And  of  course  the  fairies  came?" 

She  glanced  up  sharply.  He  was  laughing,  but  she 
went  on,  seriously. 

"They  didn't  do  the  things  to  Mary,  I  asked  them 
to,  but  they  brought  Tom." 

"Tom?"  said  Dick,  inquiringly. 

"Tom  Payne  was  a  young  engineer,  who  came  to 
work  for  daddy.  He  had  been  everywhere,  all  over 
the  world,  I  guess.  He  told  me  about  the  big  cities,  and 
about  the  stores,  and  school  houses.  He  taught  me  to 
read,  and  to  write.  We  had  no  pencils  or  ink,  but  we 
wrote  in  the  sand.  And  then  Tom  went  away." 

"Oh,  then  he  went  away,"  said  Dick,  relieved. 

"I  never  saw  him  again,  but  I  missed  him  so  much, 
I  hated  Mary,  and  the  old  tent,  more  than  ever.  I  told 
my  poppies  I  was  going  to  run  away  from  home.  And 
the  next  day  daddy  said,  'Midget,  I  am  going  to  take 
you  away  to  school.' " 

"And  is  that  your  name — 'Midget?'" 

"Daddy  always  called  me  that,  but  maman  had 
named  me,  Nanette." 

"And  you  went  to  school  ?" 

"Mon  Dieu,  no.    He  put  me  in  a  convent." 

"So  you  are  in  a  convent,"  said  Dick,  not  knowing 
whether  to  feel  sorry  or  glad. 

"Mon  Dieu,  I  am  not!  I  hate  them  all,  the  sisters, 
and  the  priests,  that  were  always  watching  me.  They 
took  away  the  pretty  clothes  daddy  bought  for  me  and 
then  they  sold  Goalie." 

"Goalie?" 

"My  pony.  That  is,  they  thought  they  had ;  but  I 
jumped  on  his  back  and  rode  away.  I  never  saw  the 
convent  again." 


A  CRADLE  OF  THE  RANGE  25 

"You're  a  wonder!"  said  Dick,  admiringly. 

She  smiled  at  'his  boyishness. 

"Why  did  they  sell  your  pony?" 

"I  had  been  there  six  months  and  they  told  me  daddy 
had  paid  for  only  three.  He  had  never  come  back." 

"And  you  have  never  seen  him,  since?" 

"No." 

"Poor  little  girl !"  said  Dick,  putting  a  hand  over 
her's.  "Then  where  did  you  go — after  you  ran  away?" 

"The  man,  who  had  bought  my  pony,  overtook  me. 
I  told  him  why  I  ran  away — how  they  had  taken  all  my 
pretty  things — how  I  had  to  black  shoes  and  scrub 
the  floors — and  how  I  hated  them!" 

"And  he  brought  you  here,  to  a  seminary  ?  That  was 
fine!" 

She  looked  out  over  the  sea  to  the  sail  of  a  coast- 
line schooner,  making  headway,  slowly,  before  the  morn- 
ing breeze. 

"He  has  been  very  good  to  me,"  she  said,  slowly. 
"He  was  sorry  for  me,  I  guess;  and  he  said  it  was  the 
best  thing  he  ever  did,  when  he  found  me.  He  is  in 
Japan,  now." 

"But,  Nanette,  you  are  not  happy,"  said  Dick,  recall- 
ing her  words  of  the  day  before. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  am — in  a  way.  They  are  all  good  to  me. 
I  have  everything  pretty  I  wish  to  buy,  and  don't  have 
to  do  any  work,  unless  I  want  to  help.  And  that  reminds 
me,  we  haven't  touched  our  sandwiches,  and  I  am  just 
dying  for  one  of  those  pickles." 

For  a  long  time  they  lay  there  in  the  sand,  the  girl 
telling  of  incidents  in  the  camp  life  of  her  childhood,  of 
the  Mexicans,  and  of  the  wild  riding  of  the  Indians ;  and 
Dick,  of  college  life,  and  of  stories  he  had  read.  He  told 


26  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

her  the  story  of  Hiawatha  and  Minnehaha,  reciting  some 
of  the  lines. 

"Oh,  how  wonderful  to  know  all  these  things!"  she 
exclaimed.  "All  my  life  I  have  craved  to  know  things, 
and  to  do  something — something,  you  know,  that  would 
always  make  me  feel,  afterward,  I  had  done  my  part. 
Don't  you  think  that  everyone  is  born  for  some  purpose? 
It  is  when  I  get  these  thoughts  I  feel  like  running  away 
to  some  other  part  of  the  world,  millions  of  miles — " 

"That  would  take  you  all  the  way  to  the  moon,"  said 
Dick.  "And  there's  a  man,  there,  they  say." 

"There  must  be  a  woman  in  the  moon,  too,"  said  she. 

"What  makes  you  think  so?" 

"The  man  would  have  left,  long  ago." 

"You  are  right,  Minnehaha,  wise  little  maiden  of  the 
poppy  field.  Whisper  to  your  fairies,  and  ask  them  if  I 
can  carry  you  away  to  a  wigwam  in  the  Northland." 

"In  your  little  birch  canoe.  Oh!  Hiawatha,  young 
chief  of  the  Yahkimas !  Aren't  we  foolish — but  it's  fun, 
isn't  it?  I  shall  think  of  Hiawatha  every  time  I  wear 
this  dress  again.  It  was  given  me  by  an  Indian  boy, 
poor  fellow." 

"Why  'poor  fellow?'" 

"He,  too,  one  night  wanted  me  to  run  away.  The 
next  day  they  found  his  body  in  the  bay.  They  told  me 
he  had  shot  himself.  But  I  think  he  was  killed.  Why 
should  a  man  kill  himself  for  any  girl.  Anyway,  I 
hadn't  told  him  I  wouldn't  go." 

"Why  should  anyone  kill  him?"  asked  Dick. 

Nanette  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Maybe  he  had  an  enemy.  In  Frisco  some  one  is 
killed,  everyday.  No  one  ever  knows  why.  Is  it  like 
that  in  England?" 


A  CRADLE  OF  THE  RANGE  27 

"In  New  England!  England  is  way  across  the 
Atlantic." 

"What's  the  Atlantic?"  she  asked. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  ? — don't  you  take  Geography  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"At  the  convent  they  taught  a  lot  of  things;  but  I 
wouldn't  try  to  remember.  It  was  mostly  about  God, 
and  Christ,  and  'Blessed  Mary.'  Mon  Dieu!  I  was 
scared,  at  first,  every  time  Sister  Agnes  said  anything 
about  Mary.  I  thought  she  meant  Mary,  the  cook,  my 
lather  took,  after  mother  died." 

"I  guess  you're  a  little  pagan,"  said  Dick. 

"I  guess  I  am — whatever  that  is,"  said  Nanette.  "Is 
it  something  awfully  bad?" 

"No,"  said  Dick.  "It  is  a  kind  of  girl  I  always 
wanted  to  find.  The  girls  I  knew  were  all  church  girls." 

"I  never  have  been  in  a  real  church,"  said  she.  "But 
I  think  we  had  better  start  back  now.  I  have  a  lot  to 
do  today." 

A  little  later,  on  their  ride  back,  Dick  drew  up  at  their 
meeting  place. 

"I  wonder  if  I  could  coax  your  fairies  to  bring  me 
the  good  luck  they  brought  to  you,"  he  said.  "I'm  going 
to  tell  the  poppies  something  I  want  more  than  anything 
else  in  the  world. 

"Not  now,  silly  boy,"  said  she.  "It's  only  in  the  night 
the  fairies  come  and  they  leave  with  the  dew  at  dawn. 
But  I'm  late,  and  must  ride  fast.  Tomorrow,  Monsieur 
Dick?" 

"I'll  be  here  first,"  said  Dick. 
"Au  revoir,  monsieur." 

She  dug  her  moccasined  heels  in  Goalie's  sides  and 
galloped  away. 


CHAPTER  III 
SENOR  MIRANDO 

During  the  fortnight  that  followed,  Dick  and  Nanette 
were  together,  almost  daily. 

Sunday  had  been  spent  at  the  little  adobe  ranch-house, 
where  they  had  breakfasted  the  first  day.  He  had  taken 
from  the  Osmond  library  a  copy  of  Tennyson's  "Idylls 
of  the  King,"  and  read  to  her  of  Arthur  and  the  Round 
Table,  of  Enid  and  Geraint,  and  of  Lancelot  and 
Guinivere. 

Dick  read  well,  and,  to  the  girl,  the  story  of  kingly 
love  and  courageous  knights  was  real.  She  seemed  to 
live  with  them,  as  he  read,  and  the  changing  expression 
of  her  eyes  had  offered  to  one  more  observing  than  he 
evidence  of  deep  emotion,  sympathy  and  indignation, 
blending  into  intense  desire. 

Another  day  he  read  the  "Merchant  of  Venice."  It 
was  a  new  style  of  literature  for  her,  and  she  did  not 
grasp  it  readily.  But  when  he  had  finished,  she  remained 
quiet  for  sometime. 

"I  wonder  just  how  it  feels  to  know  that  you  have 
saved  someone's  life?"  she  asked.  "There  are  days  when 
I  seem  to  be  someone  other  than  myself — as  though  I 
had  once  lived  before,  and  had  accomplished  great  things. 
Sometimes,  when  I  hear  of  some  great  thing  a  girl  has 


SENOR  MIRANDO  29 

done,  it  seems  as  though  I  was  that  girl,  and  I  had  done 
it.  Do  you  think  we  ever  did  live  before,  Dick?" 

He  laughed  at  her  seriousness.  His  heart  had  never 
held  deep  thoughts,  nor  had  philosophy  ever  appealed 
to  him. 

"Theosophists  believe  they  have  lived  before  as  some 
other  person,  or  will  live  again,  as  a  bird  or  animal," 
said  he. 

"That  would  be  a  silly  thing  for  whoever  is  running 
this  world  to  do.  It  would  be  like  working  a  hundred 
years  to  build  a  house,  then  tear  it  down  and  build  it 
into  a  barn." 

"But,"  said  Dick,  "if  a  person  doesn't  live  right,  in 
this  life,  he  may  become  a  cat  or  a  monkey  as  a  punish- 
ment, these  people  claim." 

Nanette  shook  her  head. 

"I'll  never  believe  that;  for  who  is  to  say  what  is 
right  or  wrong?  It  is  only  when  we  realize  we  have 
hurt  someone  that  we  know  we  have  done  wrong.  But 
it  wasn't  our  fault.  We  are  sorry,  and  say  we'll  never 
do  it  again.  Then  we  do  something  else,  and  are  sorry 
for  that.  No  one  lives  right  all  the  time,  and  wby 
shouldn't  everyone  become  a  cat,  or  a  monkey?  If  I 
had  a  hand  in  these  things  I  would  want  to  give  every- 
one greater  lives  to  live  next  time  —  if  there  was  to  be 
any  next  time." 

"Well,  don't  let  us  get  to  worrying  about  that,  Miss 
Sober  Face,"  Dick  said,  laughingly.  And  she  laughed 
with  him. 

So  this  day,  and  the  next,  and  others  following, 
brought  them  nearer  to  the  parting  hour. 

Dick  was  wildly  in  love  with  Nanette.  He  was  sure 
of  this.  He  was  not  sure  just  how  it  was  to  work  out. 


30  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

He  prolonged  his  visit  at  the  Osmond's,  and  thought 
himself  quite  clever  in  concealing  the  real  cause  for  not 
going  north ;  and  each  day  found  him  less  inclined  to  go. 

She  attracted  him  in  a  different  way  from  any  other 
girl  he  had  known.  She  was  childishly  confidential.  Her 
very  frankness  freed  her  from  any  trace  of  boldness.  And 
she  really  was  filling  up  some  of  the  rifts  in  his  own 
nature  with  ambitious  desires. 

He  wondered  just  what  Martha  would  say  if  he  were 
to  bring  Nanette  to  Washington  as  his  wife.  A  letter 
from  his  sister  had  told  him  Channing  would  be  at  The 
Dalles  on  business  at  the  time  he  should  reach  there, 
if  he  started  immediately. 

This  last  morning  Nanette  was  late,  and  he  was  fear- 
ful that  something  had  happened.  He  rode  back  up  the 
trail  and  met  her,  riding  hard. 

"I  couldn't  get  away,"  she  said.  "Senor  Mirando 
returned  yesterday." 

"Nanette!  You  are  not  looking  like  yourself,"  said 
Dick,  drawing  his  horse  close  to  hers. 

"I  didn't  sleep  a  wink,  all  the  night  long,,"  she  said. 
"I  pretended  to  be  sick,  locked  myself  in  my  room,  and 
just  couldn't  go  to  sleep." 

He  put  his  hand  on  her  pony's  neck. 

"Let's  run  away!"  he  said. 

At  his  sudden  eagerness,  a  smile  drove  some  of  the 
worry  from  her  face. 

"Where  would  we  go?"  she  asked. 

"To  Washington!" 

"Oh,  Dick!"  she  cried,  a  frightened  look  coming  into 
her  eyes. 

"Come,  Nanette,  let  us  go,  now now!"     He  took 

her  hand,  resting  on  the  pommel  of  her  saddle. 


SENOR  MIRANDO  31 

Nanette  leaned  forward,  staring  at  her  pony's  mane. 

"I  must  go  tomorrow,  Nanette.  I  can't  leave  you 
now,  dear.  You  have  never  had  a  real  home.  I  don't 
know  just  how  we  are  to  do  it,  but  I  know  we  can  work 
it  out,  some  way.  Will  you,  dear?  Will  you  come?" 

"Oh,  Dick!    If  we  could." 

"We  can,  Nanette.    We  can !    We  can !" 

"Oh,  Dick!"  She  was  looking  straight  into  his  face 
now,  and  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  wonder  of  hope. 

"Nanette,  by  darling!  My  darling!  Come  with  me." 
The  pressure  of  his  hand  aroused  her.  The  light  died 
out.  Her  face  went  white. 

"No,  Dick,  I  can't  do  it,"  she  whispered.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  why,  but  it  cannot  be."  She  tried  to  pull  her 
hand  away.  He  saw  her  teeth  shut  tight. 

"Listen,  Nanette !  Listen,  dear !  I  love  you !  I  want 
you!  You  must  come!  Oh,  you  must  come!  You 
must !"  He  leaned  from  his  saddle  and  put  an  arm  about 
her. 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Nanette!  Nanette!"  he  cried.  "I  cannot  give  you 
up,  now." 

Again  she  shook  her  head,  her  teeth  still  clenched. 
But  he  saw  the  tears  corning. 

"Nanette,  darling!  You  love  me!  I  know  it!  I 
know  it !  Tell  me  you  do !  Tell  me !  Say  you  will  go !" 

"Mon  Dieu!  Mon  Dieu!"  she  screamed.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  that.  I  have  no  right  to  tell  you  that!  —  but  I 
do!  I  do!  I  didn't  know  it  until  last  night.  Mon  Dieu! 
Mon  Dieu!  What  shall  I  say?" 

He  drew  her  toward  him,  to  kiss  her,  but  she  forced 
a  hand  between  her  lips  and  his. 


32  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"You  are  mine,  now!"  he  cried,  fiercely.  "You  shall 
go  with  me.  Nothing  on  God's  earth  shall  take  you 
from  me  now!" 

She  gasped,  and  pulled  the  lace  at  her  throat.  He 
loosened  his  hold. 

With  a  sudden  movement  she  balanced  herself  in  the 
saddle.  Then,  with  the  quirt,  which  hung  from  her 
wrist,  she  struck  his  horse  a  cruel  blow. 

The  mustang  reared  and  plunged  sideways,  throwing 
him  to  the  ground.  Then  she  cut  the  whip  into  Goalie's 
flank,  and  went  through  the  chaparral  like  the  wind,  the 
mustang,  riderless,  galloping  after. 


CHAPTER  IV 
CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE 

"Well,  Richard,  where've  you  been  for  three  whole 
days?" 

Jack  Osmond  had  spied  Dick,  just  as  the  latter  had 
taken  a  seat  at  another  table,  in  the  Parker  House  cafe. 
Dick's  face  was  haggard,  and  so  dejected  his  look, 
Osmond  burst  out  laughing. 

"For  heaven's  sake,  boy,  what's  the  matter?" 

"It's  a  long  story,  Jack,"  he  answered,  with  a  sickly 
smile.  "Sit  down  here  and  I'll  tell  you  about  it." 

"Have  you  lost  the  girl?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  her?"  he  cried. 

His  friend  laughed,  unproariously. 

"Nothing,  old  chap,  absolutely.  Only  I  knew,  long 
ago,  you  must  be  caught  with  petticoats  somewhere. 
Those  early  rides,  you  know,  my  boy;  and  then  I  used 
to  know  you  at  college,  didn't  I,  eh?  Now  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

He  sat  down  with  Dick  and  began  looking  over  the 
menu. 

Jack  Osmond  was  much  like  Dick,  eyes  and  hair, 
irresolute,  and  slightly  smaller  in  stature.  He  had  been 
in  the  Eastern  college  longer  and  was,  perhaps,  more 
matured. 


34  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

This  evening,  as  he  sat  beside  his  friend  and  listened 
to  his  story  of  the  girl  Dick  had  met,  had  fallen  in  love 
with,  and  then  had  lost,  there  was  less  of  the  sympa- 
thetic interest  in  his  face  than  had  been  there  two  years 
before.  There  was  a  cynical,  sinister  expression  reveal- 
ing a  man  of  the  world  in  development.  Tonight  this 
contrasted  more  strongly  with  his  friend's  boyishness 
as  Dick  told  of  the  days  he  had  been  haunting  schools 
and  convents,  city  streets  and  country  lanes  in  vain  for 
a  sight  of  the  girl  who  had  come  into  his  life  so  sud- 
denly and,  as  he  thought,  providentially,  only  to  disap- 
pear, and  leave  him  miserable,  indeed. 

"Well,  cheer  up,  Richard,  he  said,  slapping  him  on 
the  shoulder.  "Next  week  we're  off  for  a  hunt  in  the 
mountains,  and  you  will  forget  your  troubles.  Have  you 
anything  on  for  tonight?" 

Dick  shook  his  head. 

"A  friend  of  mine  just  back  from  the  Orient  is  to 
meet  me  here,  right  now.  Here  he  comes.  Wait,  we'll 
dine  together." 

Jack  introduced  his  friend. 

Larrabie  -Harding  was  quite  the  opposite  of  the  other 
two,  tall,  well-made,  dark,  and  good  looking.  Determi- 
nation flashed  in  his  fascinating,  black  eyes,  and  there 
was  a  suggestion  of  animal  strength  in  his  cheek  and 
chin,  of  pitilessness  in  the  white  teeth,  exposed  often  by 
a  peculiar  twitching  movement  of  his  lips  when  he 
laughed. 

Harding  had  told  Osmond  little  about  himself.  How- 
ever, since  meeting  him  two  years  before  on  board  ship 
from  Japan,  he  had  proved  a  congenial  fellow,  and  the 
two  had  struck  up  quite  a  friendship. 


CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES    35 

"Our  friend,  here,  seems  to  be  out  of  spirits  tonight," 
he  said,  turning,  inquisitively,  to  Dick. 

"He's  sick  about  a  girl  he  met  in  a  poppy-field.  Saw 
her  every  day  for  a  fortnight,  then,  presto,  she  disap- 
pears. Doesn't  even  know  her  name.  I'm  going  to  take 
him  with  me  up  to  the  woods  next  week.  After  one  or 
two  encounters  with  big  game,  he'll  forget  the  birds." 

"Well,"  said  Harding,  "I  can  show  you  some  city 
birds  that  should  make  you  lose  interest  in  mountain 
game.  Fresh  from  Japan,  slant-eyed  and  sweet,  fragrant 
with  the  odor  of  cherry  blossoms.  Will  you  take  a  look?" 

Osmond  turned  to  Dick. 

"What  do  you  say,  old  man?" 

Dick  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Some  fellows  I  know  just  got  in  on  the  Brigadier," 
Harding  went  on.  "They're  going  to  join  me  here, 
shortly.  They  are  lousy  with  gold,  and  crazy  to  spend  it." 

They  were  nearly  through  supper  when  two  of  the 
men  entered  the  cafe  and  joined  them. 

"What'll  it  be?"  asked  one  of  them,  tapping  Dick's 
empty  glass.  He  was  a  larger  man  than  Harding,  brown 
from  travel,  and  with  a  repulsive  scar  across  his  left 
cheek. 

"Whiskey  for  me,"  said  Osmond.    Dick  nodded. 

The  other  stranger,  tall  and  also  sun-browned,  took  a 
seat  opposite  Dick.  He  was  lame.  Evidently  each  car- 
ried a  wound  of  some  adventure. 

"Waiter,  bring  us  a  bottle  of  red-eye,"  ordered  the 
man  with  the  scar. 

Jack  left  the  table  for  a  few  moments,  and  Dick,  who 
had  been  glancing  over  the  evening  paper,  heard  the  men 
conversing  in  French.  Since  meeting  Nanette  he  had 
been  brushing  up  his  knowledge  of  that  language,  and 


36  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

now  understood  enough  to  know  they  had  landed  a  con- 
traband cargo  somewhere  along  the  coast.  The  thought 
that  Harding  was  a  smuggler  startled  him.  He  wondered 
if  Jack  knew.  He  resolved  to  stay  with  them  and  see 
what  he  might  learn. 

An  hour  later  they  left  the  hotel. 

About  midnight  Harding  led  the  party  to  a  three- 
story,  brilliantly  lighted  building,  near  Portsmouth 
Square.  It  was  a  notorious  gambling  house,  one  of  many 
owned  or  operated  frequently  by  some  of  the  very  men 
who  made  laws  to  suppress  them. 

Loud  laughter  mingled  with  the  rattle  of  chips  and 
whirling  of  roulette  wheels  as  Harding  drew  back  the 
portiers  and  ushered  his  companions  into  a  luxuriantly 
furnished  room.  A  sense  of  languorous,  oriental  ease 
was  heightened  by  the  smoke  of  burning  joss  sticks. 

Rich  draperies  hung  at  doors  and  windows,  and  gave 
off  heavy,  sensuous  odors,  as  they  were  moved  by  the 
night  breezes.  Japanese  girls,  in  native  attire,  flitted 
about  at  the  ringing  of  bells;  while,  through  a  half- 
draped  arch  a  company  of  men,  in  an  adjoining  room, 
partly  obscured  by  tobacco  smoke,  were  seen  recklessly 
tossing  gold  pieces  upon  a  long,  green  table.  From  some- 
where came  the  sound  of  negro  voices.  Weird  and 
plaintive,  without  accompaniment  of  banjo  or  guitar, 
they  sang, 

"For  de  angels  am  a  comin',  dere  harps  we'll  hear  a 
strummin', 

When  we  all  go  way  up  yondah,  in  de  oV  silber  moon." 

A  woman,  prematurely  age-lined,  her  cheeks  painted, 
and  her  bosom  flashing  with  jewels,  came  forward  and 
greeted  Harding,  familiarly.  He  introduced  her  as 
"Madame  Gorgen." 


CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES          37 

"Where's  my  little  one?"  he  asked. 

"She  still  refuses  to  come  down,"  said  the  madame. 
"She  is  really  sick,  I  fear,  for  she  is  looking  bad."  Hard- 
ing's  eyes  grew  hard. 

"I'll  bring  her  down.  See  that  my  friends  have  a 
good  time."  Dick,  at  his  shoulder,  half  intoxicated, 
heard  him  whisper  that  they  had  come  to  spend  the  night 
and,  incidentally,  a  lot  of  money. 

She  nodded,  knowingly,  and  Harding  left  the  room. 

His  companions  already  had  made  themselves  at 
home.  Several  Japanese  girls,  in  gaudy  silk  kimonas, 
slipped  in  through  draped  entrances.  The  madame  sat 
down  at  the  piano.  She  beckoned  to  Swallow,  who  went 
to  her  side. 

"How  do  you  like  San  Francisco?"  she  asked,  her 
practised  eye  having  told  her  at  once  that  he  was  a 
stranger. 

"I'm  tired  of  it,"  he  answered.  "I  shall  not  stay 
here  longer  than  tomorrow." 

"And  then?" 

"I  am  going  to  Washington."  He  began  to  tell  her, 
in  a  manner  made  foolishly  confidential  by  liquor,  why 
he  had  come  west. 

Suddenly  she  stopped  playing.  Harding  had  come 
back,  and  stood  in  the  doorway  with  his  arm  about  a 
young  girl,  in  a  yellow  dress,  scarcely  reaching  her  knees, 
black  stockings  and  yellow,  tasseled  slippers.  Her  white 
neck  and  shoulders  were  partly  shielded  by  a  mass  of 
black  hair. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "this  is  Nanette." 

All  turned  toward  her  except  Swallow,  who  was  talk- 
ing on  in  a  rambling  manner  to  the  woman;  but  the 


38  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

girl  had  recognized  him.  She  caught  at  the  curtain  and 
turned  to  leave.  Harding's  arm  tightened  about  her. 

"Let  me  go;  oh,  please  let  me  go,"  she  said,  plead- 
ingly. "I  am  not  well — ask  them,  please,  to  excuse  me." 

She  had  spoken  in  a  low  tone,  but  the  familiar  voice 
penetrated  Swallow's  drunken  senses.  He  whirled  about. 

"Nanette !"  he  cried.  "My  God !  What  are  you  doing 
here?" 

The  girl  had  quickly  recovered.  She  drew  herself 
up,  haughtily,  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"And  you,  you!  What  are  you  doing  here?"  Her 
voice,  trembling  with  emotion,  rang  out  sharply  on  the 
last  word. 

Dick  was  sober,  now.  He  started  toward  her;  then 
drew  back  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  His  lips  moved,  but  he 
said  nothing.  For  a  moment  the  room  was  very  still; 
then  he  broke  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"It's  all  a  joke,  fellows!"  he  cried,  his  voice  high- 
pitched.  "It's  only  a  joke!  Fill  up  the  glasses,  every- 
body !  And  we'll  all  drink  to  Nanette,  and  to  the  teach- 
ers and  professors,  and  to  all  the  girls  in  the  seminary." 

"Just  a  moment,"  said  Harding.  "Nanette  is  to  do  a 
little  dance  for  us.  Come,  ma  petite,  you  must  enter- 
tain my  friends."  He  attempted  to  lead  her  into  the 
room. 

She  was  marble  white.  The  piteousness  had  left  her 
face. 

"Not  tonight,"  she  said,  firmly,  slipping  out  of  his 
arm.  "I  cannot  dance  tonight.  I  am  going  upstairs." 

No  one  stopped  her.  She  walked  out  into  the  hall 
and  ascended  the  stairs.  When  she  reached  the  landing 
she  turned.  Dick  Swallow,  his  hat  crushed  in  his  hand, 


CREATURES  OF  "CIRCUMSTANCES          39 

stood  in  the  hall  looking  after  her.  She  watched  him 
until  he  pulled  open  the  door  and  stumbled  out  into  the 
street. 

Then  she  went,  wearily,  to  her  room,  entered,  turned 
the  key  and  sank,  a  yellow  heap,  to  the  floor. 

She  did  not  cry ;  she  only  lay  there,  limp  and  motion- 
less. Rays  of  moonlight  filtered  through  the  lace  cur- 
tains, caressing  her  tumbled  hair  like  fairy  wands,  call- 
ing her  back  to  the  days  of  childish  hopes  and  innocence. 
*  *  *  *  * 

There  is  a  smell  of  sage  and  chaparral.  Little  field 
mice  scamper  here  and  there  playfully,  not  fearing.  In 
the  distance,  a  big  tent,  dirt-stained;  and  ropes,  laden 
with  things  drying  in  the  sun.  A  roughly-dressed 
woman,  bent  over  a  tub,  washing,  careful  not  to  waste 
the  precious  water. 

The  scent  of  the  sage  is  gone.  There's  a  stench  of 
smoke  and  grease,  as  the  woman  turns  about,  and  a 
coarse  voice  screams,  "Hey,  you !  Where  ye  bin  ?  Peel 
them  spuds,  this  minnit.  Don't  ye  see  the  shadders? 
Git  to  work,  you!" 

Teams,  uncountable  teams,  hitched  to  great  iron 
scoops,  drag  wearily  through  the  sand,  piling  ridges  of 
yellow  earth  for  miles  and  miles.  From  the  chaparral 
comes  the  call  of  a  meadowlark.  Again  and  again  it 
pierces  the  afternoon  air,  calling  her  back  to  play.  She 
puckers  her  lips  to  answer,  but  the  woman  wheels  about 
to  hang  a  wet  garment  on  the  rope;  and,  instead,  her 
eyes  go  back  to  the  bucket  of  spuds  at  her  feet. 

She  is  only  a  child.  Her  hands  are  small  and  brown, 
as  are  the  well-turned  wrists,  working  energetically  to 
fill  a  great  iron  kettle  with  peeled  potatoes.  She  does  not 
know  she  is  pretty.  She  knows  only  that  her  eyes  are 


40  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

large  and  always  wanting  something.  And  her  face  is 
brown,  like  her  hands — what  she  can  see  of  it  in  the 
mirror  that  had  been  her  mother's,  now  broken,  and  but 
partly  there — not  large  enough  to  frame  all  her  bushy, 
black  curls. 

A  cloud  of  dust,  in  the  distance,  catches  her  stealthy 
glance  and  out  of  the  dust  comes  a  big  white  horse  with 
a  large  man  on  his  back.  In  great  leaps  he  comes, 
straight  to  the  tent,  and  to  her. 

Daddy!  Daddy!"  she  cries,  throwing  her  knife  and 
pan  of  parings  to  the  ground. 

"Yes,  yes,  Midget,  I'm  home  agin,  an'  it's  glad  I  am 
to  be  back.  How've  ye  been  behavin',  gal,  these  three 
last  days?" 

He  is  on  the  ground,  leaving  the  horse  to  care  for 
himself;  he  sits  on  a  nail  keg,  beside  the  tent,  and  she 
climbs  on  his  knee. 

"Daddy,  I  want  something  very,  very  much.  Can  I 
have  it,  daddy  ?"  She  pats  his  rough  face,  and  he  softens 
at  the  pressure  of  the  slender  arm  about  his  neck. 

"Not  another  pony,  is  it,  Midget?  Shure  ye  haven't 
given  up  findin'  Goalie  yet?" 

"No,  daddy.  He  was  brought  back  yesterday  by  a 
boy  from  Bartlett's  ranch." 

"What  is  it,  child,  ye  want  now,  then?" 

"I  want  an  education,  daddy." 

"And'  where'll  I  be  buyin'  ye  an  eddycashun,  gal  ?" 

"At  a  big  schoolhouse  somewhere,  daddy,  like  Tom 
told  me  about." 

"Wall,  wall,  child,  I'll  see.  An'  now  git  back  to  them 
spuds,  fer  it'll  soon  be  time  fer  the  men." 

They  are  leaving  the  camp,  the  rough,  big,  good- 


CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES          41 

natured  man  on  his  white  horse,  and  she  on  Goalie's 
back,  on  the  way  to  learn  some  of  the  wonderful  things 
of  the  world. 

The  convent  —  the  black-robed  women  —  the  black- 
frocked  priests  —  the  coarse  shoes  and  plain  dresses  — 
the  months  of  pain,  of  home-longing,  of  hate  in  her  heart. 

"We  have  sold  your  pony!"  No,  no,  not  Goalie!  It 
can't  be !  It  shan't  be  that !  On  his  back  —  barefooted  — 
bareheaded,  hardly  any  clothes  —  but  away  they  ride, 
never  to  go  back.  Anywhere,  anywhere,  but  never  back 
there. 

Then  the  man,  dark,  handsome,  smiling  at  her,  his 
teeth  wonderfully  white  and  even,  behind  those  twitch- 
ing lips.  And  kindness,  gentleness,  the  first  in  her  life. 
Money  to  buy  whatever  she  likes.  Pretty  clothes,  thick, 
soft  carpets,  curtains  of  lace,  earrings,  bracelets,  rings 
that  flash  in  the  light  as  the  fishes  flashed  their  speckled 
sides  in  the  sunlit  brooks  where  the  men  went  for  water 
for  the  camp.  And  music !  —  the  weird,  plaintive  melo- 
dies of  the  negro  singers,  stirring  her  with  a  strange 
feeling  of  sympathy  and  new  desire  —  and  the  poppy 
field  —  and  the  great  blue  water  stretching  out  to  other 
lands  thousands  of  miles  away  —  and  — 

Someone  shook  the  door,  then  tried  a  key  in  the  lock. 

She  lifted  her  head  and  listened.  The  door  was 
pushed  hard ;  but  the  bolt  held,  and  she  heard  steps  going 
away.  Again  all  was  quiet. 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The  moon  had 
gone  out  of  the  sky ;  the  darkest  hour  of  night  was  over 
the  city,  the  hour  of  dark  deeds,  of  blacker  crimes  in  the 
black  haunts  of  men. 

It  had  been  such  a  beautiful  dream,  when  he  thought 
her  a  school  girl!  How  gloriously  wonderful  the  world 


42  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

became,  as  they  talked  of  life's  possibilities,  improbable 
as  they  had  seemed  to  her;  and  of  great  cities  beyond 
the  mountains  and  across  the  seas,  in  other  lands. 

How  thrilled  she  had  been  as  he  read  to  her  that  day 
of  a  great  and  good  king  who  had  never  done  wrong, 
about  whose  Table  Round  had  gathered  fair  women  and 
brave  men  —  men  who  cared  for  life  only  that  they  might 
give  it  freely  for  some  woman's  love.  She  recalled  the 
story  of  Guinivere,  'King  Arthur's  queen,  her  pity  for 
the  king,  her  indignation  and  horror  as  she  learned  of 
a  woman's  faithlessness.  She  did  not  understand  it  all, 
perfectly,  but  she  had  cried  out  —  making  him  smile  at 
her  earnestness  —  that  this  queen  was  a  wicked,  wicked 
woman,  this  Guinivere,  who  had  turned  away  from  the 
love  of  a  great,  good  king,  to  become  —  well,  she  had 
felt,  herself,  that  she  had  rather  died.  Yes,  in  those  days, 
when  the  curtain  of  a  different  and  unthought  life  had 
been  lifted  for  a  moment,  she  had  forgotten  herself,  her 
hopelessness  and  her  helplessness.  Then  he  had  asked 
her  to  go  away  with  him,  to  be  his  wife.  Oh,  why  had 
that  awful  something  risen  up  within  her  —  that  morning 
when  he  had  told  her  he  loved  her  —  a  something  that 
crept  into  her  senses,  chokingly  —  up  into  her  eyes 
blotting  out  the  joy  of  that  sudden  new-born  hope  — 
screaming,  "You  cannot  go!  You  cannot  go!"  And  she 
had  fled,  back  to  this  place,  to  this  useless,  hated  life! 

She  struggled  for  breath,  a'  throbbing,  dull  pain  in  her 
throat.  Reactively,  the  pent-up  passion  burst  its  bond. 
She  snatched  at  the  gaudy,  yellow  silk,  and  tore  it  from 
her.  She  threw  it  to  the  floor,  under  her  feet,  then  put 
on  a  dark,  plain  dress,  threw  a  long  cape  about  her 
shoulders,  and,  with  her  face  hidden  by  the  hood,  stole 
cautiously  down  the  stairs,  out  into  the  night. 


CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCES  43 

She  had  in  mind  no  destination.  She  wanted  only 
to  get  away  from  the  past,  to  run  away  once  more  — 
this  time  away  from  the  gaudiness,  the  lights,  the  revelry 
—  from  civilization,  as  she  had  found  it  —  away  from  it 
all,  and  go  back  to  her  childhood  world,  where  the  great 
mother,  Nature,  would  give  back  the  birds  and  the  sun- 
shine, the  flowers  and  the  little  field  mice. 

She  walked  mile  after  mile  on  through  the  dark 
streets,  vaguely  reasoning  that  down  at  the  docks  were 
the  boats — ships  that  went  to  some  other  world. 
Through  the  in-creeping  mist  she  saw  the  red  and  green 
flickering  lights  of  the  shipping.  She  could  hear  the 
water  slapping  the  wood. 

Suddenly  a  form  appeared  close  in  front  of  her. 
someone  had  turned  the  corner,  and  was  almost  upon 
her.  She  drew  back,  fearful ;  and  the  man,  walking 
swiftly,  his  head  low,  nearly  knocked  her  down. 

As  she  cried  out,  he  grasped  at  her  to  keep  her  from 
falling.  Her  hood  fell  away. 

"Nanette!" 

It  was  Dick  Swallow.  She  saw  his  haggard  features 
dimly  in  the  light  of  a  nearby  lamp,  and  tried  to  pull 
away. 

He  tightened  his  grip  on  her  arm  until  she  gasped 
from  pain. 

"Nanette!  My  God!  What  are  you  doing  here? 
Where  are  you  going?" 

"Please  let  me  go!"  she  choked,  "I  am  going  away. 
I  am  going  to  the  docks." 

"No,  no!  You  shall  not  go.  Oh,  my  God!  My 
God!  What  does  it  all  mean?  Why  were  you  there? 
I  had  been  looking  for  you  everywhere."  He  let  go  of 
her  arms  and  pressed  his  temples  hard  with  his  hands. 


44  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

She  went  to  him  and,  reaching  up,  clasped  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

"Dick!    Oh,  Dick!    Don't!"  she  whispered. 

He  pushed  her  away,  fiercely. 

"Why  were  you  there  —  in  that  place?" 

"He  took  me  there." 

"Who?" 

"Senor  Mirando." 

"Who  is  this  man  Harding?" 

"Senor  Mirando.  He  has  many  names.  He  took  me 
there  when  I  ran  away  from  the  convent." 

"And  the  seminary?" 

"Your  seminary  —  not  mine — was  there.    I  did  not 
lie.    You  would  have  it  so." 
.    "Are  you  his  wife?" 

"No,  Dick,  we  —  we  were  never  married." 

He  turned  away  from  her  a  moment,  and  staggered 
against  the  building.  She  crept  up  to  him  again,  and 
this  time  he  let  her  hands  stay. 

"And  then  —  when  you  wanted  me  to  run  away  I 
couldn't  tell  you,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  why  did  you 
come  there?  Why?  Why?" 

"My  God !    Oh,  my  God !"  he  cried,  piteously. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

"Oh,  Nanette!  Nanette!  I  love  you!  I  love  you! 
You  are  mine  now!  You  are  better  —  better  than  I  am 
—  in  the  sight  of  God!" 

He  felt  her  tears  on  his  neck. 

"Listen,  dear!"  he,  whispered,  his  lips  caressingly 
touching  her  hair.  "You  shall  be  my  wife,  and  your 


CREATURES  OF  CIRCUMSTANCE  45 

wish  shall  come  true,  Nanette,  my  darling.  The  worst 
man  in  all  the  world  will  be  your  husband ;  and  with  your 
help  he  shall  become  the  best.  Kiss  me,  now,  dear." 

He  lifted  her  face,  and  their  lips  met  in  the  purest 
kiss  he  had  ever  known. 

No  better  than  she.  No  worse.  Just  creatures  of  cir- 
cumstance, groping  through  the  mysterious  purpose  of 
human  souls. 

"Come,"  he  said;  and  they  went  back  through  the 
night,  leaving  behind  them  the  lights,  and  the  ships, 
and  the  water. 


CHAPTER  V 
PUBLICANS  AND  SINNERS 

The  stage  coach  from  The  Dalles,  drawn  by  six 
horses,  swung  into  the  main  street  of  Old  Town,  where, 
as  usual,  almost  every  man,  woman  and  child  of  the 
village  were  waiting  its  arrival. 

Burke  Channing  was  there;  for  part  of  the  year  he 
helped  in  the  store  in  which  was  the  postoffice,  and  the 
opening  of  the  mail,  twice  a  week,  was  the  chief  event 
of  the  town.  Burke  was  a  type  of  rough,  made-to-order 
ranchmen,  browned  by  the  prairie  sun,  the  fierce  aspect 
of  his  black  drooping  moustache  set  at  nought  by 
kindly-twinkling,  brown  eyes. 

"Hey,  Luke!"  he  yelled  to  a  grizzled  rancher,  who 
had  limped  up  to  the  support  of  a  post.  "Got  some 
rheumatiz  medicine  coming?" 

Luke  spat  out  a  mouthful  of  tobacco. 

"Medicine  be  damned  1"  said  he,  "an'  the  rheumatiz, 
too.  'Taint  done  me  nothing  but  make  me  poor.  I'm 
sweatin'  in  the  hay  now.  Jinks  Cruppin  says  it  cured 
him." 

A  large  stallion,  ridden  by  a  brown-skinned  ranger, 
typical  of  the  cowboy  fraternity  of  those  days,  came  to 
a  halt,  front  feet  striking  the  air.  Then  with  a  snort  and 
a  whinnying  challenge  to  a  dozen  or  more  lariat-tied 


PUBLICANS  AND  SINNERS  47 

horses  about  the  door,  he  pawed  the  sand.  The  ranger, 
twisting  to  a  comfortable  position  in  the  saddle,  scruti- 
nized the  crowd. 

"Hello,  Billy!"  said  Burke,  coming  forward.  "Just 
in  time  to  see  our  youngster  from  the  states  .  The  kid's 
married,  too  —  some  girl  in  Frisco.  Couldn't  have  known 
her  more'n  a  week  or  two.  Here  they  be!" 

William  Carruthers  —  Billy  Ki-Ki,  as  he  had  been 
familiarly  nicknamed  by  his  associates  —  saw  a  young 
woman  being  helped  to  earth  from  the  driver's  seat  by 
a  young  man  whom  Burke  was  slapping,  western-like,  on 
the  back. 

The  girl  shook  out  her  skirts,  adjusted  her  hat  to  a 
proper  tilt,  and  looked  around,  curiously. 

Billy's  big  horse  caught  her  eye. 

"Oh,  Dick,  isn't  he  handsome !"  she  cried,  turning  all 
eyes  toward  the  ranger.  And  they  saw  Billy  Ki-Ki  gasp, 
his  elbow  slip  from  its  resting  place  on  the  animal's 
neck,  and,  with  an  effort,  right  himself  in  the  saddle. 

But  Nanette  wasn't  looking  at  him.  She  had  run 
forward,  and  was  patting  the  stallion's  neck. 

"Oh,  you  big,  black  boy !"  she  cried.  Then,  glancing 
up  at  the  ranger,  she  said,  "Will  you  let  me  ride  him 
sometime,  Mr.  Cowman?  I've  ridden  a  pony  all  my 
life,  but  I  have  longed  to  ride  a  big,  wild  horse  like  this." 

Billy  sat  staring  at  her,  speechless;  then  he  heard 
Burke  say,  "This  is  Dick's  wife,  Billy.  Ain't  she  a 
wonder?"  The  crowd  laughed.  They  had  all  been  hit 
breathless  at  the  impulsive  action  of  Nanette. 

Burke  introduced  them  to  the  crowd. 

"My  brother-in-law,  men  and  women,  Dick  Swallow, 
from  the  States.  And  this  frisky  little  critter  is  his  wife. 


48  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Take  a  look  at  her,  an'  tell  me  if  she  ain't  some  addition 
to  this  little  old  village." 

Nanette  laughed,  gaily,  as  the  men  pulled  off  their 
sombrerros  and  yelled  a  greeting. 

But  Billy  Ki-Ki,  without  a  word,  jerked  his  rein  and, 
digging  a  spur  in  the  stallion's  flank,  bounded  away. 

"Wasn't  he  funny?"  said  Nanette,  turning  to  Dick. 
You'd  think  he  had  never  seen  a  woman  before." 

"That's  his  way,"  said  Burke.  "But  he's  a  fine  fellow 
when  you  get  to  know  him." 

Luke  Waters  bit  a  fresh  mouthful  from  his  plug. 

"Reckon  he's  seen  all  too  many  wimmin  folks  afore 
now !"  he  muttered,  and  limped  into  che  store. 

In  the  crowd  was  a  young  woman,  fresh-cheeked  and 
pretty,  though  roughly  dressed,  whose  enraptured  eyes 
had  never  left  Billy  Ki-Ki's  face.  Laura  Waters  had 
for  years  cherished  secretly  a  woman's  hope.  Once, 
when  she  was  a  child  —  only  five  years  back,  for  she  was 
now  but  seventeen — Billy  had  saved  her  from  the  fury 
of  a  large  rattlesnake.  Stepping  aside,  in  the  chaparral, 
to  let  the  ranger  pass  her  on  the  road,  she  had  unknow- 
ingly disturbed  the  snake.  As  she  stood  watching  Billy's 
approach,  suddenly  she  saw  him  jerk  his  shooter  from 
his  belt  and  fire  almost  directly  at  her.  Startled,  she 
turned  to  run,  but  drew  back  with  a  scream.  There, 
at  her  side,  the  great  rattler  was  writhing  and  coiling  in 
a  death  struggle.  Billy's  aim  had  been  true,  and  the 
very  fangs  of  the  serpent  had  been  torn  away. 

Since  then,  whenever  Billy  visited  Luke  Waters' 
ranch  to  consult  him  in  matters  concerning  the  round-up 
—  for  Billy  had  been  round-up  captain  for  half  a  dozen 
years,  and  Luke  had  more  horses  and  cattle  on  the 
range  than  any  other  one  owner  —  Laura  had  crept  in, 


PUBLICANS  AND  SINNERS  49 

as  near  as  possible,  to  hear  his  voice  and  build  up  day 
dreams  that  never  were  to  come  true. 

Now,  watching  Billy's  face,  wondering  if  he  would 
see  her  in  the  crowd,  she  heard  Nanette  exclaim,  and 
saw  her  run  to  Billy's  side. 

"What'd  she  say,  Miss  Raines?"  she  asked  a  woman, 
dwarfed  and  crooked  in  back,  who  was  at  her  side. 

"She's  a  brazen  hussy ! — if  she  is  Martha  Channing's 
sister-in-law!"  said  the  humpback.  "Says  she,  'What  a 
handsome  man!'  and  goes  right  up  to  Billy  Ki-Ki  and 
asks  him  if  she  can  ride  his  horse." 

Laura  looked  at  the  woman,  her  lips  apart,  incred- 
ulously. 

"Oh,  Miss  Raines!  You  misheard  her!  You  cer- 
tainly did!  No  woman  could  do  a  thing  like  that,  Mis' 
Raines." 

"Humph!  I've  lived  in  the  States.  You  don't  know 
what  a  woman  does  in  the  States."  Peeved  by  Laura's 
incredulity,  she  pushed  her  way  into  the  store. 

Burke  took  Nanette  in  his  arms  and  kissed  both  her 
cheeks.  "You're  my  sister,  little  gal,"  he  said,  "and  I've 
got  to  do  my  duty." 

He  called  to  a  boy  standing  in  the  store  doorway. 

"Alec,  you  see  the  mail's  handed  out,  and  keep  your 
eye  peeled  on  Injun  Pete.  He's  lookin'  at  them  yaller 
blankets  like's  he  might  walk  out  with  one.  Tell  Nick 
to  drive  'round  to  the  house  with  them  trunks  and 
things." 

"Where's  the  baby?"  Nanette  asked.  "Dick  said  there 
was  a  baby." 

"She's  at  the  house  with  her  ma.  Ain't  walking  yet. 
Come  on,  they're  waitin'  for  you." 


50  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Martha  came  down  the  path  to  meet  them,  baby  in 
her  arms.  She  eyed  Nanette  curiously,  and  kissed  her. 

Nanette  coaxed  the  baby  to  her. 

"Oo,  'ittle  tootsie-wootsie  blue-eyes,"  she  said.  "I'm 
your  auntie,  and  oo's  going  to  love  me  awful  lots." 

"See  you're  practicing  up  on  baby  talk,"  said  Burke, 
looking  at  Martha  from  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"Burke's  a  great  pester  —  er  —  Mrs.  Swallow." 

"Nancy  Swallow,"  said  Dick.  "Nanette"  was  to  be 
the  other  girl,  the  self  that  was  to  be  forgotten.  They 
had  decided  upon  that  on  the  stage. 

"You've  got  a  right  good  name,  sister,"  said  Burke. 
"Ye  must  'a  picked  it  out  specially  to  please  Martha. 
That's  her  favorite  name." 

"And  did  you  name  the  baby  that?"  asked  Nancy, 
not  daring  to  look  at  Dick,  for  fear  she  would  scream 
with  laughter. 

"No,  we  called  her  Elizabeth  Mary  Jane,  after  her 
two  grandmothers,"  said  Martha.  "Burke's  mother's 
name  was  Mary  Jane." 

"If  I  ever  have  a  baby  I  shall  not  call  her  'Mary,' 
that's  as  sure  as  I'm  knee  high  to  a  spring  chicken,"  said 
Nancy. 

Burke  chuckled. 

"You  didn't  beat  a  chicken  by  more'n  a  running 
chance,"  said  he.  "How  old  be  ye,  Nancy?" 

"Seventeen." 

"Oh,  my!  Oh,  my!"  exclaimed  Martha.  "Whatever 
could  your  mother  have  been  thinking  about,  to  let  you 
marry  at  that  age?" 

"Her  name  was  Mary,  and  she  always  had  the  smell 
of  griddle  cakes  and  bacon,  so  I  left  home,"  said  Nancy, 
her  eyes  dancing  as  she  looked  at  Dick. 


PUBLICANS  AND  SINNERS  51 

Dick,  catching  his  sister's  horrified  look,  quickly 
explained. 

"Nancy  had  no  real  mother,  Martha,  since  she  was 
a  little  girl.  Her  own  mother  died,  and  Mary  was  her 
stepmother." 

"Come  on  in  and  get  off  your  duds,"  said   Burke, 
slyly  taking  Nancy's  hand  and  giving  it  a  squeeze.    And 
little  Nanette,  on  the  threshold  of  wifehood  and  woman- 
hood, knew  she  had  found  another  friend. 
*      *      *      *      * 

At  the  same  moment  a  man  who  had  left  the  stage 
down  in  Parker  Bottom  limped  in  among  the  thick  brush 
that  edged  the  river  bank  —  a  man  with  a  white  beard 
and  thick,  white  hair,  in  unnatural  contrast  with  his  face 
and  hands,  browned  from  oriental  suns.  He  crawled  into 
the  welcome  shade  and  lay  down. 

"An'  so  she  skipped  —  married  the  feller,  sure'n  hell !" 
he  muttered,  with  a  hoarse  laugh,  looking  off  toward  Old 
Town.  "Harding'd  give  something  to  know  what  was 
'longside  o'  me  all  the  way  from  The  Dalles.  Well, 
don't  know  as  it's  any  o'  my  business  —  if  the  feller's 
satisfied;  and  he  knows  what  he  got,  that's  certain;  and 
she'll  be  a  heap  sight  better  off,  I  guess."  Chuckling 
softly  to  himself,  he  removed  his  wig,  jerked  his  false 
beard  from  his  face,  and  stretched  out  for  a  sleep. 


CHAPTER  VI 
JIM  CRAWLEY 

Down  at  the  postoffice  Alec  Lattimer  was  distributing 
the  mail. 

"Who's  Jim  Crawley?"  he  asked,  holding  up  a  thick 
letter  in  a  brown  envelope. 

A  large  man,  with  florid  face  and  a  crop  of  bristling, 
red  whiskers,  rose  from  a  soap  box.  Alec  recognized 
him  as  a  newcomer  on  the  stage.  He  gave  him  the 
letter. 

Crawley  sat  down  and  read  the  several  sheets  labori- 
ously. Then  he  sat  staring  into  space,  while  others  came 
and  went. 

Presently  there  was  left  a  group  of  men  arguing  over 
the  various  problems  of  pioneer  life. 

Crawley  rose  and  joined  them. 

"Men,  my  name's  Crawley  —  Jim  Crawley,"  said  he. 
"I'd  like  summat  to  do.  I've  just  come  in,  hoping  to 
find  good  news  waitin'  me,  but  this  'ere  letter  tells  me 
I'm  dead  broke  and  busted  'igher'n  a  kite  in  'ot  weather. 
I'm  goin'  to  be  desperit  'ard  pushed  till  things  hease  up 
a  bit.  I'd  be  powerful  glad  fer  a  bit  o'  work  that's  lasting 
awhile." 

"There  ye  be,  Luke,"  said  a  lanky  rancher,  shooting 
a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  into  a  box  of  sawdust  six  feet 


JIM  CRAWLEY  53 

away.  "While  ago  ye  was  cussin'  fer  not  being  able  to 
git  help  to  separate  them  thousand  sheep." 

Luke  looked  Jim  over  from  head  to  foot. 

"Can  ye  ride  a  horse?"  he  asked. 

Jim  shook  his  head. 

"Honly  'orse  I  ever  'ad  was  a  saw  'orse,  and  I  haint 
sot  eye  on  that  fer  forty  year.  I've  been  a  miner,  mostly, 
and  I  can  dig." 

"Well,"  said  Luke,  "mebbe  I  can  use  ye,  even  at 
thet.  Last  wind  we  had  hereabouts  lifted  'bout  a  hun- 
dred ton  o'  sand  from  my  south  60  acres  and  piled  it 
over  'gainst  old  Jerkwater's  cowbarn.  He  says  I  got 
to  move  it,  or  he'll  have  the  law  agin  me." 

"How's  he  make  out  ye're  to  blame  for  that,  Luke?" 
asked  Hank  Evans,  the  village  cobbler. 

"Sez  as  how  my  cussin'  did  it.  Night  afore,  Bronson 
rode  in  and  told  me  he  saw  more'n  a  hundred  o'  my 
longhorns  over  nigh  the  Reservation ;  and  Jerk  he  might 
'lowed  I  had  a  right  to  cuss,  knowin'  as  them  damn 
redskins  '11  have  steer  meat  till  next  Christmas." 

"Wall,  Luke,  ye  got  a  right  to  cuss,  an'  ye  got  a 
right  to  pay  fer  the  damage  ye  did,"  said  another  rancher. 
But  he  was  the  only  one  to  laugh  at  his  wit. 

"Wat's  Jedge  Lattimer  say  about  it?"  Hank  asked. 
Mr.  Lattimer  was  the  notary  public,  justice  and  legal 
adviser  for  the  village,  having  at  one  time  studied  law 
in  the  States. 

Luke  turned  on  Hank. 

"Wat's  it  yure  Good  Book  says  about  lawyers, 
Hank?  Don't  it  say  'Woe  unto  'em,'  or  suthin  like  thet? 
An'  ye  sendin'  me  to  'em?  Might  just  as  well  move  thet 
sand  as  pay  fer  lawyers."  He  turned  to  Crawley.  "Jim 
Crawley's  yer  name,  hey?  Wall,  Jim,  ye  can  crawl  'long 


54  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

home  with  me,  an'  I'll  see  w'at  I  can  do  fer  ye."  He 
rose,  and  after  testing  his  leg  a  moment,  set  out  for 
his  ranch,  a  mile  distant,  Jim  following  slowly  behind. 

"Did  ye  see  Burke's  relashuns,  Hank?"  one  of  the 
ranchers  asked. 

"Not  yit,"  said  Hank.     "Who  be  they?" 

"Brother  o'  Mis'  Channing,  an'  wife.  Jest  a  kid, 
both  on  'em.  Bet  that  gal  knows  suthin  about  horse- 
flesh. Sh'd  'a  seen  her  spy  put  Billy  Ki-Ki's  horse  fust 
thing.  Billy  got  het  up  'cause  she  didn't  notice  him 
fust,  and  he  rode  off  'thout  his  mail." 

"Now,  lookee  here,  Bat,  ye  know  Billy  better'n  that," 
said  Max  Bronson,  a  cowpuncher.  "It's  because  the  gal 
comes  from  the  States.  He's  sot  agin  women,  an'  spe- 
cifically if  they  got  city  airs.  I  reckon  some  gal  onct 
put  a  spike  in  Billy's  liver." 

"Can't  be  so  long  ago,  neither,"  said  another  cowboy. 
"He  dropped  a  paper  in  Hank's  shop  onct,  when  I  war 
thar  waitin'  fer  some  peggin'  while  Hank  war  at  grub. 
Not  knowin'  as  it  war  his'n,  I  looked  at  it.  Thar  war 
a  pictur'  o'  some  pretty  gal  an'  it  says,  'taken  at  Boston, 
1864.'  'Long  comes  Billy  an'  asks  did  I  find  a  package, 
an'  I  give  it  to  him.  'Pictur'  o'  my  mother,'  sez  he,  and 
he  know'd  he  wus  lyin'.  Billy  war  about  twenty-six  him- 
self, then,  and  the  gal  warn't  more'n  that  if  she  war 
a  day." 

"  'Twant  right  fer  ye,  Lanky,  to  read  that,"  said  Hank, 
moving  toward  the  door.  "Ye  should  a  give  it  to  me, 
seein'  as  ye  found  it  in  my  shop.  More'n  that,  ye  c'ud 
'a  kept  from  blabbin'  about  it." 


CHAFER  VII 
IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIKE 

The  village  did  not  see  much  of  Nancy  during  the 
remainder  of  the  week.  Burke,  previous  to  Dick's  ar- 
rival, and  in  line  with  a  suggestion  from  his  father-in- 
law,  had  secured  an  option  on  a  vacant  building  in  the 
village,  and  was  to  take  Dick  into  partnership  in  another 
general-merchandise  store.  So  while  Burke  went  to 
The  Dalles  to  order  a  stock  of  goods,  Dick  began  re- 
modeling the  building  to  get  it  in  attractive  shape,  with 
the  idea  that  a  store  more  modern  and  after  the  manner 
of  metropolitan  stores  would,  more  readily,  get  a  share 
of  the  town  and  ranch  trade. 

The  second  day  after  their  arrival,  an  old  rancher, 
named  Kirby,  had  been  found  dying  from  knife  wounds. 
It  became  at  once  the  village  sensation. 

Nancy  heard  Burke  telling  Dick  about  it,  and  little 
did  she  dream  that,  some  day,  she  would  learn  how 
strangely  a  Mysterious  Hand  works  out  the  perplexities 
of  life. 

Nancy  had  resolved  to  win  Martha's  affection.  She 
insisted  upon  helping  with  everything,  that  she  might 
learn  something  about  housework. 

Martha  had  begun  to  like  her  better,  when  an  incident 


56  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

occurred  that  caused  Nancy's  castle  to  fall  like  a  house 
of  cards. 

Saturday  morning,  Thomas  Raines,  the  village 
preacher,  called  to  arrange  with  Martha  about  the 
Sunday  services,  and  was  introduced  to  Nancy. 

He  was  a  bachelor,  living  with  his  sister,  Janet,  who 
had  been  a  cripple  since  her  birth.  Martha,  being  a 
minister's  daughter,  took  the  chief  part  in  the  religious 
activities,  and  was  a  great  help  to  the  "parson,"  as  they 
called  him. 

The  organist — the  only  person  in  the  whole  village, 
excepting  Martha,  who  could  play  an  organ,  had  not 
returned  from  The  Dalles,  and  so  Parson  Raines  had 
come  to  see  if  Mrs.  Channing  could  take  her  place.  Un- 
fortunately, Martha,  helping  Nancy  get  a  box  upstairs, 
had  sprained  her  left  wrist. 

Raines  turned  to  Nancy. 

"Probably  Mrs.  Swallow  will  help  us  out?"  he 
questioned. 

"Oh,  I  would  like  to  so  much,"  she  said,  "but  Dick 
and  I  promised  a  man,  who  rode  with  us  from  The 
Dalles — a  Mr.  Crawley — that  we  would  go  fishing  with 
him.  He  was  such  a  funny,  big  man,  and  he  told  us 
about  Betty,  his  sweetheart,  in  England — or  New  Eng- 
land, who  had  been  waiting  for  him  for  thirty  years. 
It  is  only  on  Sundays  you  hold  these  meetings?"  Then 
she  saw  the  astonishment  in  Martha's  face.  Feeling  she 
had  made  some  blunder,  she  flushed  deeply,  and  turned 
back  to  Mr.  Raines. 

"I  can  play  the  organ,  a  little,  but  I  never  was  at 
a  real  church  in  my  life.  Maybe  Dick  can  fix  it  with 
Mr.  Crawley  for  some  other  day." 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIRE  57 

"Never  been  to  church !"  exclaimed  Martha.  "Where 
on  earth  have  you  lived,  all  your  life?" 

A  defiant  spirit  rose  in  Nancy's  breast.  But,  through 
the  window  she  saw  Burke  coming  up  the  path,  and  the 
words  at  her  very  lips  gave  place  to  a  comforting 
thought  that  he  was  some  sort  of  a  sinner,  too.  She 
looked  at  the  parson,  with  a  frank  countenance,  smiling 
prettily. 

"I  was  left  an  orphan  when  I  was  less  than  six  years 
old  and,  until  I  was  put  in  the  convent,  my  education 
was  sadly  neglected. 

"A  convent!"  Martha  gasped.    "Are  you  a  Catholic?" 

Nancy  giggled. 

"Not  a  very  good  one,  I  guess.  I  ran  away.  All  I 
heard  about  from  morning  till  night,  was  God,  and 
Jesus  Christ ;  but  I  wasn't  getting  anything  new.  Almost 
every  horse,  the  men  drove,  had  names  like  that.  My 
father  built  the  Central  Pacific  Railway. 

"Oh,"  said  Martha,  recovering  slightly,  "You  did  have 
a  father?" 

Burke  had  halted  in  the  kitchen,  and  was  listening. 
He  came  to  Nancy's  aid. 

"You've  heard  about  Patrick  Weatherbie,  the  con- 
tractor? Sure  you  have,  Parson!  He  built  most  of  the 
Central  Pacific,  Dick  says.  That's  Nancy's  father." 
Burke's  imagination  was  working  rapidly. 

Parson  Raines  had  been  studying  Nancy,  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  twitching  into  a  smile. 

"Suppose  you  walk  over  to  the  hall  with  me  and 
look  over  some  hymns  we  are  to  sing." 

Nancy  hesitated,  till  she  saw  Burke  looking  at  her 
with  one  eye  shut.  He  was  telling  her  to  "carry  on." 

She  went  down  the  path  at  the  parson's  side. 


58  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Oh,  Burke!"  Martha  cried,  putting  an  arm  around 
his  neck,  as  though  for  protection.  "She  has  never  been 
to  church,  nor  to  Sunday  School.  And  she  had  promised 
to  go  fishing  on  the  Sabbath  day!  What  would  mother 


say 


They  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  Burke  helped  pre- 
pare the  noon  day  meal. 

"Martha,"  said  he,  when  he  was  through  luncheon, 
and  she  had  accompanied  him  to  the  front  gate,  "don't 
you  worry  yourself  about  Nancy.  It's  my  opinion  Dick 
has  caught  a  prize — of  solid  gold.  That  girl's  got  stuff 
in  her." 

Meanwhile  Parson  Raines  and  Nancy  had  a  long  talk 
together  in  the  hall  above  the  undertaker's  shop,  which 
was  their  "church"  on  Sunday,  and  the  village  auction 
room,  court  room  and  dance  hall  on  other  days. 

Of  course,  Nancy  knew  none  of  the  hymns,  but  she 
had  learned  to  play  the  organ  at  the  convent.  After- 
ward, wanting  nothing  that  money  could  buy,  she  had 
had  one  in  her  room  in  San  Francisco,  and  had  learned 
to  accompany  her  songs  very  well,  indeed. 

But  her  tunes  were  not  like  Old  Town  church  tunes. 

"I  am  so  sorry  I  can't  help  you,"  she  said,  "but  I'll 
learn.  I'm  going  to  be  just  like  all  the  folks  here,  so 
that  Martha  will  be  good  to  me." 

Raines  smiled. 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  find  it  difficult  to  change  your- 
self to  that  extent,"  he  said.  "You  don't  need  to  be  like 
the  others.  I  wish  there  were  more  here  like  you.  There 
will  be  work  for  you,  and  God  knows  we  need  help.  Do 
you  sing?" 

Nancy  swung  about  on  the  organ  stool  and  rapidly 
adjusted  the  stops.  Raines  saw  her  fingers  pressing  the 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIRE  59 

keys,  and  settled  back  in  his  chair,  with  half-shut  eyes, 
waiting  for  her  to  begin. 

Out  in  the  road  two  little  boys  were  playing  with  a 
broken  wagon.  Beyond  the  street,  in  the  broad  valley, 
a  herd  of  cattle  moved  slowly  across  the  range,  followed 
by  two  range  riders,  swaying  lazily  in  their  saddles. 
Beyond  the  valley,  among  the  wooded  slopes,  smoke 
from  a  wayfarer's  camp  curled  up  through  the  tree  tops, 
to  be  lost  against  the  blue  background  of  the  hills. 

Along  the  tree-lined  river  bank  the  low  waters  of 
the  Yahkima  purred  and  swirled  about  the  clean-washed 
roots  of  water  willows,  and  rippled  down  the  stony 
shallows  to  the  deeper  pools.  Birds  flitted  from  branch 
to  branch  above  the  stream,  while  others  bathed  and 
fluttered  in  the  sunlit  water's  edge. 

In  the  camp  among  the  hills  someone  was  singing. 
A  woman's  voice,  blended  with  the  singing  of  the  birds, 
the  rippling  of  the  waters.  Even  the  cowboys  heard 
it,  and  halted  to  join  their  voices  with  the  musical  mur- 
muring coming  from  the  hills. 

And  now  the  little  boys  were  singing,  too,  and  their 
faces,  turned  toward  the  open  window,  were  black,  and 
the  hair  on  their  heads,  black,  kinky  wool.  It  was  not  a 
wagon  they  had  there,  but  a  harp-like  instrument,  strung 
to  the  melody  of  birds  and  to  the  murmur  of  the  stream. 
The  words  were  quite  distinct,  now,  plaintively  rich 
with  the  accent  of  the  South: 

Stealin'  'along  o'er  the  moonlit  Southland, 
Night  winds  a  coaxin'  de  myrtle  to  rest; 
Hush,  baby,  hush!  dar's  a  cry  in  de  woodland: 
Robins  am  callin'  dere  birdies  to  nest. 
Stars  are  a  gleamin'  away  up  yondah; 


60  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Whipporwills  call  from  de  sycamore  trees. 

What's  it  de  jasamin's  sayin',  I  wondahf 

Glad  dey  is  rid  ob  de  ol'  bumblebees. 

Hush,  baby,  hush!  don'  you  heah  de  win'  a  moanin'f 

Soun's  like  de  debbil  am  a  groanin',  an'  groanin' ; 

For  de  angels  am  a  comin',  dere  harps  we'll  hear  a 

strummin', 
When  we  all  go  way  up  yondah,  in  de  ol'  silber  moon" 

Nancy  glanced  at  the  minister,  leaning  forward, 
tensely  still  in  his  chair.  He  was  not  handsome,  but 
there  was  more  than  physical  beauty,  something  stir- 
ringly spiritual  in  his  expression,  his  high  forehead,  the 
dark,  brown  hair,  thick  and  early  dashed  with  gray. 

As  she  mentally  noted  these  things,  a  peculiar  thrill 
came  into  her  heart,  hope  merged  with  reality,  a  great, 
overwhelming  desire  to  do  something,  to  make  some 
sacrifice,  just  as  he,  this  man  of  goodness  and  mercy, 
was  hoping  he  might  do.  It  gave  her  a  wonderful  feel- 
ing of  new  strength. 

Turning  again  to  the  organ,  she  sang  the  words  of 
that  song  now  known  throughout  the  world,  but  at  the 
time  new,  and  never  before  heard  by  the  parson  of  Old 
Town;  a  song  written  to  the  accompainment  of  count- 
less aching  hearts  that  in  the  late  war  had  longed  for 
peace : 

"We  are  tenting  tonight  on  the  old  camp  ground ; 
Give  us  a  song  to  cheer." 

She  sang  the  verses  through  with  pathos  and  soul- 
longing.  When  she  had  finished,  and  the  last  note  had 
hushed  away,  Raines  came  to  himself  with  a  start. 

"Wonderful !     Wonderful !"     he     cried,     estatically. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIRE  61 

"What  a  wonderful  voice  for  just  such  wonderful  songs !" 
"I  learned  them — where  I  lived,  in  San  Francisco, 
from  hearing  them — sung — by  negroes.  They  sang  them 
so  musically,  and  only  with  the  humming  of  their  voices 
as  an  accompainment.  I  know  several  of  them,  if — " 

A  slight  movement  caused  them  to  turn  toward  the 
door.  Three  cowboys,  sombrerros  in  hand,  had  come  in 
quietly  and  had  been  listening.  Realizing  the  music  had 
ceased,  one  of  them,  "Tank"  Barlow,  known  to  be  a  bad 
character  about  the  village,  moved  toward  them,  trying 
to  make  as  little  noise  as  possible  with  his  clanking 
spurs. 

"Parson,"  he  said,  in  a  husky  whisper,  blinking  the 
moisture  in  his  eyes,  "Jim  wants  to  ask  will  she  sing 
that  again?" 

A  sudden  thought  came  to  Raines. 

"Will  you  come  to  meeting  tomorrow,  Tank — you 
and  Jim — if  she  will  sing  it  for  you  then?  This  is  Mrs. 
Swallow,  Burke's  new  sister-in-law." 

Tank  nodded  toward  her,  and  twisted  his  sombrero. 

"I'll  come,  sartin  sure,"  said  he  huskily,  "so'll  Jim. 
Thankee,  Mis'  Swallow." 

He  turned  to  join  the  others,  then  stopped. 

"What  we  come  for,  Parson,  was  to  ask  if  ye'll  go 
over  to  the  Kirby  ranch  this  arternoon,  and  say  suthin' 
at  the  funeral,  'fore  they  plant  him.  It'll  have  to  be 
sartin  sure  today,  sez  Jenks,  er  he'll  be  rottin'." 

"Have  they  found  out  anything?" 

"Wall,  no,  not  fer  sartin  sure.  Nick  Maloney  says  as 
how  an  old  man  came  up  on  same  stage,  time  Jim  Craw- 
ley  came,  and  got  off  at  Parker  Bottom.  Hain't  been 
seen  since.  Nick  says  he  had  a  game  leg.  Jenks  sent 


62  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

a  posse  o'  the  boys  to  both  ends  o'  th'  Valley,  but  no  one 
hain't  seen  the  critter." 

"Alright,  Tank;  I'll  come." 

"Thankee,  parson.  Jim'll  drive  ye  over  in  his  buck- 
board." 

"Mrs.  Swallow,"  said  Raines,  when  they  were  alone, 
"you  have  done  more  than  you  can  possibly  know  today. 
You  have  opened  my  eyes.  We'll  have  a  different  kind 
of  service  tomorrow,  and  there'll  be  more  cowboys  at 
the  meeting  than  have  attended  church  in  Old  Town 
in  the  past  five  years." 

Nancy,  on  her  way  back  to  the  Channing  home,  was 
stirred  with  a  new  feeling.  Just  what  it  was  she  didn't 
know ;  and  she  couldn't  possibly  have  told  why  she  went 
straight  to  her  room  that  day  and  cried. 

Parson  Raines  was  alive  to  many  new  thoughts  as 
he  went  through  the  village  streets  to  his  home.  Possi- 
bilities, which  for  five  years  he  had  overlooked,  now 
crowded  his  brain ;  and  it  had  taken  this  godless,  church- 
less,  carefree,  and,  probably,  purposeless  girl  of  half  his 
age  to  open  his  eyes  and  put  understanding  in  his  heart. 

He  recognized  Mrs.  Channing  to  be  a  conscientious 
Christian ;  in  fact,  a  genuine  orthodox  churchwoman,  one 
who  must  be  a  leader  in  the  church  to  which  she 
belongs.  She  could  not  change  her  creed;  neither  could 
she  give  up  church.  Herself  leader  of  the  religious  ele- 
ment in  Old  Town,  her  husband's  indifference  to  church 
matters  was  notorious. 

It  was  necessary,  of  course,  for  a  church  to  have 
members  of  Martha's  type.  But  to  understand  God,  to 
want  to  help  humanity,  required  not  words  of  brain,  but 
the  silent  language  of  sympathetic  hearts. 


IN  THE  SHADOW  OF  THE  SPIRE  63 

He  smiled  as  he  walked  along  thinking  of  the  mor- 
row's meeting,  and  the  surprise  in  store  for  the  regular, 
orthodox  portion  of  his  congregation. 

"She's  a  genuine  child  of  the  West,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "and  much  nearer  than  she  knows  to  the  Kingdom 
of  God." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST 

Arriving  home  at  dark  from  the  funeral,  he  found 
Nick  Maloney,  the  stage  driver,  awaiting  him.  Every- 
body knew  Nick,  short,  red  and  wrinkled,  with  nose 
beaked,  eagle-like,  downward ;  his  chin  curved  noseward. 
His  lips,  drawn  tight  over  shrunken  gums,  covered  a 
few  remaining  teeth,  just  enough  to  save  his  peculiar 
brogue. 

Nick  was  a  bachelor,  living  alone  a  part  of  each  year 
on  a  ranch  near  the  village.  The  balance  of  the  year 
he  stayed  with  DeLand,  proprietor  of  the  hotel. 

"Can  I  see  you,  private  like,  Misther  Raines?"  he 
asked. 

"Come  right  into  my  study,  Nick,  and  I'll  have  Janet 
bring  us  a  bite  to  eat  and  a  jug  of  cider.  I  was  over 
to  Parker  Bottom,  holding  service  for  the  rancher  who 
was  murdered." 

"It's  thot  I  coom  to  see  you  about,  Misther  Raines — 
about  the  killin'  of  Kirby."  Nick  looked  about  cautiously. 

The  parson  stirred  the  embers  in  the  open  fireplace, 
and  put  on  some  sticks  to  give  mofe  light  than  was 
offered  by  the  one  oil  lamp. 

It  was  the  large  sitting  room  of  the  log  house  occu- 
pied by  Raines  as  a  parsonage.  Guns,  fishing  tackle, 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  65 

bowie  knives,  a  long  hair  rope,  quirts,  lassoes,  strings  of 
snake  rattles,  cartridge  belts — everything  imaginable  a 
rancher  might  think  would  please  the  parson  was  strung 
about  the  big  fireplace  of  smoke-stained  logs.  Although 
few  of  the  ranchers  ever  came  to  his  meetings — they  sent 
the  women  folks — they  wanted  him  to  feel  they  were 
friendly,  and  had  presented  him  with  these  things. 

"By  th'  by,  Misther  Raines,"  said  Nick,  rubbing  his 
hands  together,  "have  there  been  a  reward  offered  fur 
the  man  thot  kilt  ould  'Kirby?" 

Raines  turned  quickly  and  met  Nick's  shrewd  glance. 

"I  have  heard  of  no  reward,  Nick.  Do  you  know 
anything  about  it?" 

"Oh  no,  no,  no,  Misther  Raines,  shure  not.  I  wor 
only  thinkin'  ye  might  know.  He  wor  murthered,  thot's 
certain  sure.  An'  someon'  knows.  But,  my  gootny  me ! 
I  don't  know." 

At  that  moment  Janet  brought  in  their  supper  and 
waited  to  serve  them.  When  they  were  finished,  Nick 
took  out  his  pipe  and  smoked  in  silence  for  a  moment 
or  two.  After  Janet  had  left,  he  glanced  cautiously 
around,  then  moved  his  chair  closer  to  his  host. 

"Misther  Raines,"  he  began,  in  a  lowered  voice,  "I've 
somethin'  to  ask  ye,  thot's  bothern'  of  me,  d'ye  moind?" 

"Is  it  about  the  killing  of  Mr.  Kirby,  Nick?" 

"Not  entoirly,  now,  Misther  Raines.  D'ye  know  who 
did  it?"  The  Irishman's  small  eyes  were  alert. 

"Nick,"  said  Raines,  solemnly,  "whatever  I  may  have 
learned  about  that  affair  was  told  me  in  confidence,  a 
confession,  you  might  say,  before  he  died.  I  cannot  say 
any  more,  and  you  would  not  wish  me  to,  I  know,  any 
more  than  if  I  were  your  confessor." 

"My  gootny   me,   Misther  Raines!     Shure  not.     It 


66  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

wor  not  thot  I'm  askin'  ye;  but,  d'ye  belave  in  ghosts, 
Misther  Raines?  Ghosts,  d'ye  moind?" 

The  parson  laughed. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  he  said,  pushing  the  tobacco 
nearer  Nick's  elbow,  and  pouring  out  some  cider. 

"Well,  Misther  Raines,  it  wor  loike  this,  now:  The 
noight  afore  we  left  The  Dalles,  on  the  thrip  w'at  brought 
th'  Swallows  and  Jim  Crawley,  d'ye  moind,  I  wor  goin' 
to  bed  at  Riley's  when,  all  av  a  suddint,  a  mon  stood 
afore  me  in  th'  room,  w'at  wor  kilt  here,  a  long  toime 
agone,  in  Skinner's  saloon.  I  wor  thot  scared  at  sight 
av  him  I  couldn't  move  or  speak  a  wurrud ;  but  he  speaks 
out  an',  sez  he:  'Nick,  I'll  be  afther  goin'  to  Old  Town 
wit'  ye  tomorry,  an'  I'll  be  wantin'  ye  t'  kape  a  place  fur 
me  in  the  stage,'  sez  he." 

"Go  on,"  said  Raines,  reassuringly,  as  Nick  paused  to 
make  sure  the  doors  of  the  room  were  closed. 

"Well,  as  I  wor  sayin',  the  dure  wor  locked,  an'  I 
niver  heard  th'  click  o'  th'  lock  whin  he  come  in.  Whin 
he  spoke,  I  dhropped  me  candle,  an'  out  it  went,  an'  whin 
I  lit  up  again,  thar  wor  nobody  thar  at  all,  d'ye  moind. 
'Nick,'  sez  I,  'ye've  had  a  dhrop  too  much,'  sez  I ;  an'  wit' 
thot,  I  got  into  bed,  but  not  afore  thryin'  the  dure,  an' 
it  wor  locked." 

"Well,  Nick,  I  can  explain  it  only  in  this  way,"  said 
Raines.  "You  probably  saw  someone  during  the  day  that 
looked  like  this  man  you  knew,  and,  while  you  did  not 
recall  the  resemblance  at  the  moment,  it  came  to  you 
later;  and  this  man — was  he  some  one  who  lived  here?" 

"He  wor  Larry  Gorin,  old  man  Gorin's  boy,  w'at 
lived  on  the  Kirby  ranch,  afore.  He  wor  kilt  in  Skinner's 
saloon,  an'  bur-ried  in  the  cimeterry,  beyont.  I  wor 
thar,  an'  see  him  bur-ried,  d'ye  moind." 


A  VOICE  FROM  THE  PAST  67 

"Did  he  ride  with  you  to  The  Dalles  occasionally?" 

"My  gootny  me,  yis.  Ivery  month  he  would  go  down, 
on  me  first  thrip,  an'  coom  home  on  the  second  wan; 
an'  he  allus  said  th'  same  thing:  'Kape  a  place  fur  me 
in  the  stage,  Nick,  fur  I'll  be  afther  goin'  back  wit'  ye 
tomorry !" 

"Well,  Nick,  it  is  probably  as  I  have  explained  it: 
someone  resembling  him,  or  some  voice  just  like  his 
voice;  and  this  caused  a  peculiar  flash  of  memory,  and 
brought  back  in  a  second's  time  one  of  the  former  scenes 
you  have  described." 

Nick  shook  his  head,  slowly. 

"Well,  Misther  Raines,  I  dunno;  I  dunno.  It  war 
botherin'  me  iver  since,  an'  some'ow  or  ither,  I'm  thinkin', 
if  they  find  the  ghost,  they'll  find  who  kilt  the  ould  man 
Kirby." 

He  rose  to  go. 

"Nick,  there's  going  to  be  a  very  interesting  service 
at  church  tomorrow,  and  I  want  you  to  come." 

Nick  shook  his  head. 

"No,  thankee,  Misther  Raines.  I've  niver  been  to 
church  since  me  mither  died — God  rest  her  soul!"  He 
pulled  a  leather  bag  from  his  pocket  and  opened  it. 

"I'll  be  afther  given  ye  a  donation  now  fer  the  new 
church.  Jest  heard,  as  I  coom  along;  that  Tank  Barlow 
an'  Jim  Cooney  be  afther  raisin  a  pile  o'  money  fer  the 
new  meetin'  house.  'Nick,'  sez  I,  'if  Tank  is  goin'  to 
pass  the  conthribution  box  tomorry,  ye'd  better  hand 
yure  donation  in  ahead';  an'  here  it  is!" 

"No,"  said  Raines,  "I  will  not  accept  any  donation 
from  a  man  who  will  not  come  to  church.  If  you  will 
come  tomorrow  you  will  hear  Mrs.  Swallow  sing." 


68  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Shure,  didn't  she  sit  'longside  o'  me  all  the  way 
from  The  Dalles?"  said  Nick.  "Tonight,  Tank  sez,  sez 
he,  'That  gal  sings  like  a  bir-rd.'  'You're  a  liar!'  sez 
Jim  Cooney.  'I  heard  her,  an'  it  wus  like  gold  moon- 
light, all  dhry  like,  an'  siftin'  through  the  clouds  to  the 
tune  o'  angels'  harps.'  Et  that  Lanky  made  as  if  to 
cry,  an'  Jim  coom  nigh  to  wallopin'  'im,  if  Burke  Chan- 
ning  hadn't  coom  along.  But  I'm  afther  going  now. 
Tomorry?  I'll  see,  Misther  Raines." 

Replacing  the  wallet  in  his  pocket,  he  departed. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK 

That  Sunday  meeting  was  a  starting  point  for  new 
things  in  Old  Town.  Long  before  the  villagers  had 
blown  out  their  lights  the  night  before,  someone  of  the 
family,  or  a  neighbor,  had  brought  in  word  that  Dick 
Swallow's  wife  was  to  sing  at  the  meeting. 

Dick,  himself,  was  very  proud,  and  insisted  that  she 
walk  about  the  town  with  him  before  dark.  Quite  with- 
out knowledge  of  his  purpose,  she  was  pointed  out  by 
the  villagers  to  the  ranchers  and  cowboys  who  flocked 
in  on  Saturday  nights. 

The  plan  had  been  successful,  for  the  meeting  hall 
was  packed  to  the  doors.  Even  old  Luke  Waters  was 
there,  but  as  far  back  as  he  could  get,  alongside  of 
"Lanky"  and  "Hicky  Bill,"  both  of  whom  were  so  self- 
conscious  they  put  on  and  took  off  their  "Skinner  night 
hats"  every  moment  or  two.  The  term  "Skinner  night 
hat"  was  a  substitution  in  Old  Town  for  the  much  used 
"Sunday-go-to-meeting"  term,  these  cowboys  and  plains- 
men being  accustomed  on  Saturday  nights  to  put  on  their 
best  sombrerros  and  ride  in  to  Skinner's  saloon  to  gamble 
and  drink  till  Monday  morning — or  until  their  cash 
gave  out. 

It  looked  much  like  a  bad  day  for  Skinner.    Indeed, 


70  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

calculating  on  a  quiet  morning,  he  had  sent  his  wife  and 
daughter.  They,  like  the  cowboys,  were  taking  their 
cue  for  proper  behavior  from  others. 

Laura  Waters,  in  a  front  row,  kept  turning  her  head 
to  watch  the  incomers;  but  finally,  with  disappointed 
eyes,  settled  down  to  listen  to  the  parson's  invocation. 

Billy  Ki-Ki  was  not  present.  Neither  was  Jim  Craw- 
ley,  nor  Nick  Maloney.  It  chanced,  though,  that  all  three 
were  that  morning  engaged  separately  in  matters  which 
concerned,  to  a  remarkable  degree,  the  young  woman 
who  had  drawn  the  others  there. 

Raines  explained  the  absence  of  the  organist,  and 
selected  such  hymns  as  were  commonly  sung  and  well 
carried  without  accompainment.  Then  he  asked  Hank 
Evans  and  "Judge"  Lattimer  to  take  up  the  collection. 

This  was  a  happy  thought,  as  was  evidenced  by  the 
full  baskets  turned  in.  It  occurred  to  Raines  that  this 
would  also  be  an  opportune  moment  to  plead  for  help 
in  building  the  new  church. 

"The  splendid  attendance  this  morning,"  said  he, 
"shows  how  greatly  a  real  church  building  is  needed. 
Now  I  am  going  to  give  everyone  here  an  opportunity 
to  show  how  much  they  have  at  heart  the  welfare  of 
our  little  town.  While  Mrs.  Richard  Swallow  plays  the 
organ,  everyone  who  desires  may  come  and  put  their 
offerings  on  the  platform.  However,  if  there  are  any 
here  who  have  no  intention  of  coming  to  meeting  again, 
I  do  not  want  them  to  contribute." 

Nancy  rose  and  went  toward  the  organ.  As  she 
passed  the  minister  she  heard  him  whisper,  "Play  as 
you  played  yesterday." 

So,  as  she  pressed  the  keys,  and  the  melody  began 
to  fill  the  room,  first  one  rancher  then  another,  and  then 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK  71 

two  or  three  together,  clanked  their  high  heels  over  the 
wooden  floor  to  lay  some  gold  pieces  at  the  parson's 
feet.  Luke  Waters,  alone,  sat  defiant  and  resolute,  feel- 
ing he  had  already  compromised  himself  enough. 

After  the  collection,  Nancy  looked  toward  Raines. 
He  gave  her  a  signal,  smilingly,  and  she  adjusted  the 
organ  stops. 

The  words  came  low  and  tremulous  at  first,  then 
growing  strong  and  clear: 

"Mid  pleasures  and  palaces,  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home." 

It  was  a  song  all  there  had  heard  many  times.  But 
the  sweet,  untrained  voice  of  the  young  woman  made  it 
now  a  living  thing. 

Raines  rose.     His  voice  trembled  slightly. 

"We  have  much  to  be  thankful  for  this  morning,  my 
friends,"  he  said.  "I  am  thankful,  especially,  because 
so  many  of  you  have  brought  me  new  encouragement 
to  go  on  with  this  work.  This  young  woman,  whose 
song  of  home  has  touched  our  hearts,  has  opened  my 
eyes  to  new  and  wonderful  possibilities.  It  is  not  so 
much  with  our  lips  as  with  our  hearts  that  God  is 
praised;  and  it  matters  not  so  much  what  the  words 
may  be  if  they  but  waken  in  our  souls  a  desire  to  be 
of  more  help  to  our  fellowmen,  and  to  become  stronger 
in  our  own  lives.  Mrs.  Swallow  will  sing,  again,  after 
we  have  joined  in  prayer  to  our  Father  in  Heaven  for 
His  love  and  protection." 

All  bowed  their  heads,  reverently,  as  Raines  prayed. 
Then  all  eyes  went  again  to  Nancy. 

She  turned  to  the  organ,  adjusted  the  stops  and  sang 
"Tenting  on  the  Old  Camp  Ground,"  the  song  that  had 


72  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

softened  the  brute  nature  of  the  three  cowboys  the  day 
before.  The  silence  was  intense  for  a  moment,  after 
the  organ  ceased. 

Mrs.  Powers,  whose  husband  had  been  killed  on  a 
Southern  battlefield,  burst  out  crying,  whereupon  Luke 
Waters  arose  and,  with  a  grunt  and  a  snort,  tramped 
out  of  the  hall. 

Afterward,  "Lanky"  was  ready  to  make  oath  that 
"Luke's  eyes  were  mussy,  and  he  got  out  fer  fear  they'd 
get  him  to  the  mourning  bench."  But  Luke  declared, 
with  a  string  of  cuss  words,  that  "the  hull  damned  thing 
was  planned  to  git  the  contributions — not  as  I  hold  any- 
think  agin  the  parson,  fer  thet's  his  business." 

However,  not  another  man  moved  till  the  sermon 
was  finished,  and  Nancy  sang  again,  this  time  a  new  song 
of  the  Southland,  soon  to  Become  dear  to  every  heart 
while  the  world  lasts: 

Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home; 

Swing  low,  sweet  chariot, 
Comin'  for  to  carry  me  home. 

Just  as  Raines  stepped  forward  to  give  the  cus- 
tomary benediction,  the  door  opened  and  Alec  Lattimer 
dashed  in. 

"Crocker's  barn's  afire!"  he  yelled. 

The  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  the  next  moment 
the  congregation  was  on  a  stampede. 

No  one  cared  much  about  the  loss  to  miserly  old 
man  Crocker,  but  the  Widow  Powers  had  been  keeping 
some  calves  there,  and  as  the  smoke  and  flames  rose  into 
the  air,  drawing  all  the  villagers  to  the  scene,  word 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK  73 

flashed  from  lip  to  lip  that  Johnny  Powers  had  gone  in 
to  get  out  the  calves,  and  had  not  come  out. 

Suddenly,  Hank  Evans  darted  out  of  the  smoke,  bear- 
ing the  boy  in  his  arms.  He  pushed  through  the  crowd 
and  ran  with  all  his  might  to  the  widow's  home,  which 
was  next  door  to  the  Channings. 

Johnny  was  a  handsome  little  fellow,  ten  years  of 
age,  the  widow's  only  child.  Nancy  had  become  much 
attached  to  the  bright  little  chap. 

Sometime  later,  Nancy  and  Martha  were  entering  at 
their  gate,  when  a  woman  called  to  them : 

"Johnny's  burnt,  awfully,  Mrs.  Swallow.  He  wants 
to  see  you." 

Martha  followed  Nancy  into  the  cottage. 

On  a  bed,  in  a  corner  of  the  darkened  room,  lay  the 
boy,  moaning  and  convulsively  clutching  the  bedclothes 
with  one  blackened  hand.  The  other  was  in  a  bandage. 
Doctor  Kimball  had  been  in  the  crowd,  and  had  given 
first  aid. 

The  mother  ran  about  the  room  in  dazed  distraction, 
paying  no  heed  to  the  neighbor  women,  who  were  trying 
to  be  of  assistance. 

"He's  burned,  ma'am,  most  burned  to  death!"  she 
screamed,  wringing  her  hands.  "Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dear! 
He'll  die !  —  she  is  here,  Johnny,  Mis'  Swallow  —  she's 
come." 

She  paused  long  enough  to  bend  over  his  bed.  "Oh, 
my  boy,  my  boy!  Come  here,  ma'am;  he  wanted  you. 
Oh,  Johnny,  why  did  you  go?  He  went  into  the  fire — 
into  the  barn.  He  wanted  to  get  out  the  calves  and 
they're  burned,  too.  Oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  The  doctor 
says  he's  afeared  he  can't  live.  Oh,  whatever  shall  I  do?" 


74  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

She  began  walking  around  the  room  again,  wringing  her 
hands  and  crying. 

Nancy  sat  down  by  the  bed  and,  taking  Johnny's 
hand,  spoke  to  him  softly,  kissing  the  dirt-stained  fingers. 

"I  wanted  you,"  the  little  fellow  whispered,  painfully. 
"I'm  burned  ter'bly,  Mis'  Swallow.  My  eyes  are  burned, 
and  I  guess  I'm  goin'  to  die." 

Doctor  Kimball  was  looking  at  her,  and  Nancy  saw 
in  his  face  there  was  no  hope. 

"What  can  I  do,  Johnny?"  she  asked,  gently. 

"Whistle  for  me,  like  I  heard  you  once,  when  you 
made  me  think  it  was  a  meadowlark." 

Holding  his  hand  in  hers,  she  whistled  the  notes  of 
the  meadow  birds.  Then  she  whistled  the  song  of  the 
blackbird,  and  the  robin. 

Johnny  lay  quiet,  his  fingers  pressing  hers. 

"I  won't  ever  see  you  again,  will  I?"  he  said,  as  she 
paused  to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  were  blinding  her. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  will,  lots  of  times,  Johnny,  when  you 
are  well.  But  now,  you  must  not  talk;  just  keep  quiet 
and  I'll  sing  for  you." 

"Oh,  ma'am,  sing  a  hymn !"  cried  the  mother.  "Sing 
that  one  about  the  'Home  of  the  Soul/  " 

Nancy  had  never  heard  that  song;  but  she  sang 
another,  a  song  that  was  not  a  hymn  as  they  in  Old 
Town  knew  hymns;  a  lullaby  to  the  spirit  that  was 
going  soon  away — the  words  of  that  homely  Southern 
air,  "Old  Black  Joe": 

"I'se  a-comin';  I'se  a-comin'; 
An'  my  head  is  bending  low ;" 

just  as  she  had  heard  the  negro  quartet  sing  it  at  Madame 
Gorgen's  so  many  times. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LARK  75 

Madame  Gorgen's!  A  sweet,  sympathetic  note  amid 
discordant  revelry,  to  reach  through  the  desert  and  over 
the  mountains  to  this  grief-stricken  home,  and  lessen  the 
sting  of  death. 

"Tell  him  about  heaven,  and  God,"  said  the  mother, 
softly,  calmed  and  strengthened  by  the  song. 

Nancy  looked  at  the  women,  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way, 
then  at  the  bandaged  head  on  the  pillow. 

"Heaven?  God?"  she  repeated.  "What  can  I  tell 
him  about  God?" 

The  boy's  lips  moved. 

"Sing  that  again,  Mis'  Swallow,  please,"  he  pleaded. 
His  voice  was  fainter.  The  doctor  leaned  over  the  bed. 

Nancy  tried  to  form  the  words,  but  her  lips  trembled. 
With  an  effort  she  whistled  again  the  notes  of  the  birds. 

Twice,  thrice,  she  repeated  the  call  of  the  lark.  .  . 
She  felt  the  fingers  loosen.  .  .  .  There  was  a  silent 
convulsion.  .  .  .  The  boy  was  dead. 

"No  God!  No  heaven!  No  prayer!"  said  Martha 
Channing,  in  an  awed  whisper,  to  Parson  Raines,  who 
had  come  in  and  stood  silently  listening. 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  hers. 

"But  God  knows  the  song  of  the  lark,"  he  said. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  OLD  PESSIMIST 

Nancy  Swallow,  through  her  sweet,  sympathetic 
voice,  had  reached  the  heart  of  Old  Town — all  except 
Martha  Channing. 

Martha  declared  that  it  had  been  far  better  to  have 
had  no  singing  at  all,  than  those  songs  which  never  had 
been  intended  for  church,  and  took  the  thoughts  of  the 
people  away  from  God. 

She  gave  her  opinion  in  no  uncertain  words  to  Janet, 
the  parson's  sister,  who,  she  hoped,  would,  and  who  did 
carry  her  words  to  Raines. 

Martha  was  secretly  fearful  that  Nancy  was  going  to 
surplant  her  in  the  work  of  the  church,  and  she  had 
been  too  long  the  leader  of  that  congregation  to  be 
shelved  without  a  struggle. 

However,  she  decided  to  bide  her  time,  and  say  noth- 
ing to  cause  unpleasantness  while  Dick  and  Nancy 
remained  in  the  house. 

One  morning  Nancy  went  for  a  ride  on  the  pony 
Dick  had  bought  for  her,  his  first  gift  after  their  arrival 
in  Old  Town.  Two  hours  later,  riding  leisurely  back 
to  town,  she  passed  a  man  who  was  walking  with 
shoulders  bent,  pausing  occasionally  to  lean  on  a  knotted 
stick. 


77 

"Get  on  my  pony,  please,"  she  said,  slipping  to  the 
ground.  "I  am  tired  of  riding,  and  would  rather  walk." 

"No,  child,  no.  Thankee  jest  the  same,  but  I  can't 
get  on  fer  my  game  leg." 

"What  happened  to  it?"  she  asked,  walking  along 
beside  him. 

"Wall,  twar  one  o'  them  gopher  holes  thet  did  the 
mischief  to  begin  with.  I  war  ridin'  arter  a  young 
colt,  an'  my  cayuse  stepped  in  one  o'  them  durned  holes. 
He  stumbled,  o'  course,  an'  I  went  over  his  head,  an'  the 
crittur  fell  on  my  leg.  Smashed  it  flatter'n  a  fritter. 
It's  g'in  me  a  heap  o'  trouble  ever  since." 

"Did  it  hurt  the  pony?" 

"Broke  her  leg,  po'r  crittur,  an'  I  had  to  shoot  her. 
She  war  as  smart  a  cayuse  as  ever  war  lass'd.  I  can't 
see,  to  this  day,  how  she  come  to  do  it." 

"She  must  have  been  blind,"  said  Nancy. 

"She  might  ha'  been.  I  hadn't  had  her  long,  but  I 
think  I  would  ha'  noticed  it.  Now,  who  did  I  git  thet 
cayuse  of.?  Let's  see ;  it  war  Injun  Pete,  I'm  purty  nigh 
sure.  I  bought  two  lots  o'  hosses  same  time,  an'  I  think 
that  crittur  war  Injun  Pete's.  He's  a  tricky  devil,  an' 
would  ha'  shoved  her  off  on  me  quicker'n  any  other 
siwash  I  know." 

"I  would  be  willing  to  bet  she  was  blind,"  said  Nancy. 
"I  never  knew  a  range  pony  to  step  into  a  gopher  hole. 
A  horse  might  do  it;  but  not  a  range  pony." 

He  looked  her  over  sharply. 

"Guess  ye're  'bout  right.  Nice  little  crittur  ye  got 
thar." 

"Yes,  I  like  him.  My  husband  selected  him  from  a 
lot  an  Indian  brought  up  the  day  we  came.  He  doesn't 


78  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

seem  at  all  tricky.  I  have  named  him  Goalie,  after 
another  pony  I  had.  He  is  dark,  too,  for  a  cayuse." 

"From  the  States?"  he  asked,  eying  her  suspiciously. 

"Oh,  no;  from  California." 

"Californy'll  do;  but  ye  want  to  be  shy  o'  people  from 
the  States.  But,  shucks!  it  won't  be  no  time,  now,  till 
this  'ere  valley '11  be  run  over  with  whites  from  the  States. 
An'  then's  the  time  ye'll  see  me  crawlin'  back  to  the  hills." 
He  shook  his  head,  dolefully,  as  if  he  were  prophecying 
an  Indian  outbreak.  "Now,"  he  continued,  "let  me  tell 
ye  w'at  Burke  Channing  did,  er  tried  to  do.  Tried  to 
git  someone  to  plaster  his  house.  How  c'n  the  air  git 
in  if  it's  plastered  up  tight?  Jest  answer  me  that!  The 
man's  crazy!" 

"His  house  isn't  plastered,  though." 

"No,  he  couldn't  find  anyone  to  do  it,  nor  nothin' 
to  make  plaster  of.  Now,  jest  mind  w'at  I'm  tellin'  ye. 
One  bird  don't  make  a  summer;  but  it  tells  ye  mighty 
plain  thet  summer's  comin'.  Channings  air  the  fust  uns. 
It  won't  be  no  time  till  the  others  flock  in.  The  hull 
valley  '11  be  mapped  out  in  little  ranches,  with  water  that 
war  put  in  rivers  w'ere  it  belong,  atricklin'  through  them 
pesky  ditches.  Beyond  the  river,  over  thar,  it  '11  be 
irrigated.  Look  at  them  hills,  where  they  git  purple — 
not  them  elephant  backs,  but  beyond.  There'll  be  whites 
a  huntin'  gold  in  them  hills.  The  nigh  ones  may  be 
irrigated — no  tellin'  w'at  they  will  do — an'  clear  up  to 
the  base  o'  the  mountains  '11  be  little  farms.  Ye  can't 
stop  'em." 

They  walked  along  in  silence  for  some  distance, 
Nancy  waiting  for  him  to  go  on. 

"Mis'  Swallow,"  he  continued,  his  voice  trembling 
with  suppressed  feeling,  "I  war  the  fust  white  man  to 


THE  OLD  PESSIMIST  79 

strike  this  Valley.  Then  others,  sheep  an'  cattle  men  an' 
miners,  straggled  in  from  Californy  and  Montanny.  We 
ranched  it  'long  the  river,  got  some  cattle  goin'  on  the 
range,  an'  didn't  have  no  trouble  with  the  Injuns.  It 
war  when  too  many  o'  them  come  thet  the  Injuns  kicked 
up  a  row.  I  don't  blame  'em.  Old  Town  grew  up  jest 
as  ye  see  it  today.  It's  big  enough.  It  don't  no  ways 
spile  the  Valley  to  my  eye.  Git  away  up  in  the  hills  an' 
look  down,  an'  it's  jest  a  speck  in  thet  stretch  o'  sand 
Thar's  plenty  o'  room  left  fer  the  cattle  an'  the  ponies, 
an'  cowboys.  But  jest  wait!  Some  fine  morning  men'll 
come  over  the  hills  yonder,  an'  they'll  go  about  drivin' 
pegs  in  the  ground  an'  arskin'  questions,  but  not 
answerin'  none.  Then,  purty  soon  injines  and  cars 
'11  come  thunderin'  through  the  valley,  an'  it'll  be  all 
up  with  us!" 

"Is  there  talk  of  a  railroad?" 

"Not  yit,  not  serious  talk;  but  them  Easterners  ha' 
got  a  smell  o'  our  Valley,  an'  they  won't  rest  till  they've 
spiled  it.  It's  allus  the  way.  Let  a  handful  o'  people 
git  contented  livin'  the  way  't  war  intended  they  should, 
an'  it's  the  very  handful  w'at  gits  picked  out  fer  betterin', 
w'ich  gener'ly  means  the  linin'  o'  some  corporashun's 
pockets." 

"It  would  be  a  shame  to  stir  this  place  up,"  she 
agreed.  "I  liked  it  the  moment  the  stage  rounded  into 
the  Valley  through  the  Gap,  and  I  saw  all  those  funny 
box-like  houses,  like  big  soap  boxes  standing  on  end. 
The  next  morning  I  was  up  early  to  see  the  sun  rise. 
The  mists  were  just  lifting  from  the  Valley  and  settling 
in  long,  white  clouds  among  the  hills.  The  smoke  was 
pouring  up  from  all  the  chimneys.  I  guess  the  people 


80  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

were  getting  breakfast,  for  the  smoke  stopped  all  at  once. 
I  wondered  how  their  fires  went  out  so  quickly." 

"Burnin'  sage  brush,"  he  explained. 

"Oh,  that  was  it.  I  wondered.  The  snow  on  the 
mountain  peaks  was  red.  I  never  saw  a  more  beautiful 
sight." 

"I  reckon  ye  didn't  think,  as  ye  come  through  the 
South  Gap,  how  them  two  hills  war  fortified  to  keep  back 
the  Injuns  in  the  last  raid.  I'll  have  to  tell  ye  about 
it  some  day.  The  Injuns  air  quiet  enough  now,  po'r 
critturs,  an'  the  people  here  air  in  peace.  All  ha'  got 
their  alfalfa  patches  an'  gardens  an'  fruit  trees  'long  the 
river,  an'  cattle  an'  sheep  on  the  range;  an'  all  doin' 
well.  Once  an'  awhile  thar  be  trouble  over  some  feller 
a  ventin'  another  feller's  brand;  but  the  cowboys  settle 
that  among  themselves,  which  air  the  best  way  to  settle 
disputes.  Everybody's  gittin'  'long  well." 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Channing  gate,  Martha 
was  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  rest  awhile?"  Nancy  asked 
him. 

"No,  no.  I'll  be  goin'  on,"  said  the  old  man,  limping 
on  his  way. 

"We  intend  to  build,  a  little  further  on,  shortly,  and 
you  must  come  and  see  us,"  she  called  after  him. 

"Mebbe,  mebbe,"  he  answered,  without  looking  back. 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  talking  with  that  dis- 
reputable old  man,  Waters,  for!"  Martha  exclaimed. 
Don't  you  know  he  is  the  worst  old  profligate?  I  heard 
him  swearing  most  awfully  once.  But,  of  course,  you 
didn't  know,"  she  added,  fearing  she  had  spoken  too 
severely. 

"I  didn't  notice  anything  wrong  with  him.  He  seemed 


81 


just  like  any  old  man  might  be.  He  told  me  some  very 
interesting  things.  I'll  put  up  Goalie,  and  then  I'll  help 
with  the  lunch." 

"Why  don't  you  leave  Goalie  to  Dick?  Lunch  is 
ready.  I  was  only  waiting  for  you."  There  was  a  note 
of  irritation  in  her  voice. 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind  tending  Goalie,"  said  Nancy,  taking 
off  the  saddle. 

Perhaps  not,  but  you  must  not  spoil  Dick,"  insisted 
Martha.  "A  husband  is  just  as  you  start  in  with  him, 
Nancy ;  and  though  Dick  is  my  own  brother,  I  must  say 
he  has  his  faults.  You  must  train  him  right  from  the 
beginning." 

"Train  him?  How  funny!  Why,  I  don't  think  I 
could  make  Dick  any  better  than  he  is." 

"Of  course,  you  don't,  now.  All  wives  think  so  at 
first ;  but  after  a  time  you  will  find  that  first  love  changes 
into  a  common-place,  different  kind  of  affection,  and 
then  it  isn't  so  easy  to  have  your  way.  I  know  just 
how  it  is,  Nancy.  At  first  Burke  was  ready  to  do  every- 
thing my  way,  but  now  he  frowns  and  fusses.  In  time 
you  will  see  that  I  am  right.." 

"Then  I  think  it  is  perfectly  horrid  to  be  married!" 
exclaimed  Nancy.  I  never  really  wanted  to  be  married 
till  Dick  asked  me.  The  only  two  married  people  I  ever 
knew  were  quarreling  and  fighting  all  the  time." 

At  this  moment  Burke  came  into  the  yard,  whistling. 

"Well,  sister,  saw  you  coming  up  the  street  with 
Luke  Waters.  Suppose  he  told  you  everything  about 
Old  Town,  past,  present  and  future.  Did  he  want  to 
buy  your  pony?" 

"No,  but  he  told  me  about  his  cayuse  breaking  her 


82  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

leg,  and  that  he  had  to  shoot  her.  Can't  he  afford  to 
buy  another?" 

"Afford  it!"  Burke  laughed  loudly.  "Why,  he's  got 
more  money  than  any  man  in  the  Valley.  And  that 
pony  he  told  you  about  broke  her  leg  ten  years  ago." 

"But  he  says  he's  got  a  game  leg  from  the  pony 
falling  on  him,  and  I  tried  to  get  him  to  ride  Goalie  into 
town.  Has  he  been  lame  ten  years?" 

"He's  got  rheumatism — got  it  about  a  year  ago,  and 
lays  it  to  that  accident.  He's  got  more  horses  on  the 
range  than  any  man  'round  here;  but  he  always  walks 
into  Old  Town  since  he  got  rheumatism.  Gives  him  a 
chance  to  complain,  and  to  tell  the  story  about  his  horse 
falling  into  the  gopher  hole." 

Nancy  was  beginning  to  learn  some  of  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  human  race. 


CHAPTER  XI 
LOST  FORTUNES 

"You  remember  Jim  Crawley,  who  came  on  the  stage 
with  you?"  Burke  asked,  when  they  were  at  the  dinner 
table. 

"I  had  forgotten  all  about  him!"  said  Nancy. 

"He's  working  in  Doc  Kimball's  garden  as  I  came 
past." 

"I  must  go  and  apologize  to  him  for  missing  that 
fishing  trip,"  Nancy  whispered,  when  Martha  had  gone 
to  the  kitchen. 

Sometime  later,  Crawley,  who  had  been  bending  over 
bothersome  little  ditches,  letting  the  water  trickle  slowly 
in  from  the  main  ditch,  heard  a  low  whistle.  He  straight- 
ened up  with  an  effort  and  turned  his  perspiring  face 
toward  the  street.  Dizzy  from  stooping,  he  was  puzzled 
for  a  moment  on  beholding  his  acquaintance  of  the 
stage  coach;  then  wiping  his  hands  on  his  overalls,  he 
shouldered  his  hoe  and  crossed  the  garden  patch  to  the 
fence. 

"Howdy,  howdy,"  he  said,  with  a  broad  grin.  "Didn't 
know  as  I  war  ever  to  get  in  speakin'  distance  o'  ye  agin, 
as  the  sailor  said  onct." 

"That's  what  I  stopped  to  speak  with  you  about.  We 
couldn't  go,  my  husband  and  I,  for,  you  see,"  speaking 


84  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

lower  and  glancing  back  of  her  to  see  that  no  one  over- 
heard, "church  people  never  go  fashing  on  Sundays." 

Crawley  looked  perplexed  for  a  moment,  then  he 
recalled  the  arrangement  they  had  planned  coming  over 
from  The  Dalles.  As  he  had  seen  no  more  of  them,  he 
had  forgotten  about  it. 

"They  are  the  queerest  people,  here,  about  some 
things,"  she  went  on.  "Monday  they  wash  clothes ;  Tues- 
day they  iron ;  Wednesday  they  do  odds  and  ends ;  Thurs- 
day they  mend  and  darn ;  Friday  they  sweep  and  dust ; 
Saturday  they  scrub,  and  they  bake  a  lot  of  things,  and 
Sunday  they  go  to  church.  At  least  that  is  what  Mrs. 
Channing  does.  She's  my  sister-in-law,  you  know." 

Crawley  rested  his  hands  on  his  hoe  and  regarded 
her  curiously.  Then  he  laughed  till  his  fat  sides  shook. 

"Ye've  got  'em  sized  hup  pretty  well,  I'm  thinkin',  as 
the  paper  hanger  said  onct,"  he  answered.  "That's 
about  the  way  o'  church  people,  well's  I  remember.  An' 
so  your  folks  wouldn't  go  fishin'?" 

"Oh,  my,  no,"  said  Nancy.   "It's  a  sin." 

"I  never  noticed  'at  it  made  no  difference  to  the  fish. 
Seem  to  bite  Sundays  jest  the  same  as  hother  days. 
They'll  get  hover  it.  People  don't  keep  their  religious 
notions  long  in  these  diggin's.  Your  folks  haint  been 
'ere  long  I  'ear." 

"No,"  said  Nancy.  "I  wanted  to  tell  you,  we  are 
building  the  cutest  house  at  the  end  of  the  street,  here, 
and  next  week  we  are  going  to  The  Dalles  for  furniture. 
After  we  get  settled  in  our  own  house,  then  we'll  go 
fishing  any  time  you  say." 

"Then  your  husband  aint  agin  it?" 

"Dick?  No,  indeed.  It's  just  because  we  are  staying 
at  his  sister's,  that  he  thought  we'd  better  not  go — 


LOST  FORTUNES  35 

because  she  thought  it  so  dreadful.  You  must  come  to 
see  us  when  we  get  moved  in.  Are  you  going  to  stay 
in  this  queer  little  town?  Isn't  Mrs.  Kimball  nice, 
though  ? 

"Yes,  I  'opes  I'm  staked  hout  fer  keeps,  as  the  'orse 
said  to  the  'osier ;  an'  I  guess  I  knows  hev'rybody,  w'ich 
haint  sayin'  much  so  fur's  numbers  go.  Mis'  Kimball 
certainly  be  a  fine  woman — a  reg'lar  jew'l,  as  the  young 
man  ha'  said  onct." 

At  this  point  he  pushed  his  hand  down  into  his 
trouser's  pocket,  and  carefully  worked  out  a  small  leather 
bag  which  he  laid  on  the  top  board  of  the  fence.  It  was 
grimy  with  age. 

He  fumbled  awkwardly  with  the  leather  drawing- 
strings  till  Nancy  relieved  him  by  untying  the  knot. 

"Guardful!"  he  said,  as  the  pouch  flattened  out,  dis- 
playing what  seemed  to  be  a  dozen,  or  more,  rough 
pebbles.  "Di'monts  an'  nuggets — all  'at's  left  o'  three 
fortun's."  He  touched  the  little  rough  bits,  lovingly. 
"All  'at's  left  o'  twenty-five  years  diggin'." 

"Are  they  valuable?"  she  asked,  curiously  balancing 
one  on  the  tip  of  a  finger.  "I've  seen  a  great  many 
nuggets,  but  I  never  saw  any  diamonds  like  these, 
before." 

"They  air  waluble  to  me.  Now  you  mightn't  see  at 
a  glance,  any  walue  to  'em;  but  ye  see  I  knows  w'at's 
hinside  the  crust.  There's  Mis'  Kimball,  fer  example; 
she  ben't  the  kind  w'at  shines;  but  the  right  stuff's  in 
'er,  as  ha'  been  said  time  an'  agin,  I  guess." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  them?" 

"'Keep  'em.  Mebbe  they'll  stake  me  agin;  who  c'n 
tell?  That  'un,"  touching  a  nugget  the  size  of  a  small 
hickory  nut,  "I  picked  up  years  ago  in  South  Africky, 


86  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

my  first  find.    I  kep'  it  fer  luck,  meaning  to  have  it  made 
into  a  ring  fer  Betty." 

"Is  she  coming  to  Old  Town?" 

"Hain't  written  her  yet.  I  must  make  my  fortun' 
first.  Mis'  Swallow,"  tapping  the  largest  nugget  affec- 
tionately, "I  war  'alf  starved  many  a  time,  w'en  it  seemed 
I  must  part  wi'  that  nugget,  to  save  my  life.  But  I 
ha'  held  on't,  an'  went  'ungry,  an'  kep'  diggin'.  Wall, 
I  ha'  gone  to  Brazil,  a  year  or  two  arterward,  and  fer  a 
long  time  everythink  war  agin  me.  Then  I  ha'  struck  a 
bit  o'  luck  in  di'monts  there.  That's  w'ar  I  got  these 
little  fellers.  I  war  about  to  write  to  Betty  w'en  smash, 
bang,  went  hev'rything  in  the  revolution,  an'  I  war  glad 
to  get  hout  wi'  a  hull  skin,  as  some  'un  ha'  said  onct." 
"My,  that  was  hard  luck!  And  did  you  write  Betty?" 
"Wall,  no,  I  'adn't  the  'art  to  write  'er.  All  I  had 
war  these  little  nuggets  an'  a  big  one  w'at  I  'ad  to  let 
go  fer  passage  money  to  Hostralia.  There,  I  took  'eart 
agin,  and  start's  fer  'ome,  arter  sendin'  a  letter  to  Betty. 
Wall,  afore  we  got  in  San  Francisco,  the  ship  lost  'er 
steerin'  gear  in  a  storm,  an'  wind  blowed  us  fer  miles 
an'  miles  out  to  sea.  We  finally  fetched  up  with  a  steamer 
w'at  took  us  in  tow,  an'  prospects  war  good  to  gettin' 
in  safe,  w'en  if  the  bloomin'  ship  didn't  spring  a  leak  hoff 
Horegon,  an'  we  'ad  to  take  to  the  boats,  all  'ands.  Didn't 
'ave  time  to  say  'Jack  Robinson !'  w'at's  more  to  git  me 
luggage,  an'  down  goes  my  fortun'  ker  plunk,  in  the 
bloody  sea.  I  war  glad  to  get  to  shore  alive,  if  I  didn't 
'ave  but  two  an'  sixpence  in  me  pocket,  aside  from  these 
nuggets.  I  had  been  diggin'  twenty-five  years.  An'  I'm 
still  diggin'  so  fer  as  that  goes,  an'  Luke's  sand  pile  is 
w'ere  Jim  Crawley  begun  to  dig  out  another  fortun'." 


LOST  FORTUNES  87 

"Oh,  look!"  cried  Nancy.  "Your  ditch  has  broken 
out  and  is  flooding  the  potatoes." 

"Caesar's  'ighways!"  exclaimed  the  one-time  mine 
owner,  as  he  hastened,  hoe  in  hand,  to  the  place  where 
the  bank  had  broken  through. 

He  bent  down  and  pressed  the  soft  earth  against  the 
break,  stopping  the  flow;  then  he  surveyed  the  flooded 
potato  patch  in  dismay. 

"I'm  so  sorry,"  she  called  out.  "But  don't  forget  to 
come  and  see  us ;  and,"  lowering  her  voice,  "let  us  know, 
sometime,  when  you  are  going  fishing." 


CHAPTER  XII 
"THE  LORD  TAKETH  AWAY" 

Nanette  Weatherbie  had  been  at  one  funeral — when 
her  mother  died.  She  had  a  misty  recollection  of  candles 
burning  around  a  long  black  box;  of  her  father  kneeling 
before  that  box,  eyes  closed,  and  mumbling  something 
she  could  not  understand.  Then  the  big  tent  had  been 
crowded  with  men,  who,  on  other  days,  had  handled  the 
iron  scoops;  and  a  man,  dressed  very  much  like  Mary, 
the  cook,  holding  up  a  cross  and  saying  something  in  a 
kind  of  song.  Mary  had  lifted  her  up  to  see  what  they 
had  in  that  long  black  box,  and  it  was  a  white — a  very 
white  face,  with  eyes  closed,  and  motionless.  Then  they 
took  the  black  box  away,  and  Mary  said  they  had  taken 
maman  to  heaven. 

Today  Nancy  Swallow,  for  the  second  time  in  her 
life,  was  to  take  part  in  a  burial  service — this  time  a 
small  white  box  and  a  white,  still,  little  face  that  seemed 
asleep. 

As  she  looked  into  the  coffin,  the  realization  came 
that  never  again  would  he  be  seen  running  about  the 
streets ;  never  would  his  mother  hear  his  voice. 

Why  should  there  be  such  calamity  as  death?  What 
strange  freak  of  nature  was  this? — To  bring  into  being 
this  mysterious,  awful  thing,  life,  and  then  snatch  it  away 


"THE  LORD  TAKETH  AWAY"  89 

in  so  horrible  a  manner?  It  couldn't  be  that  there  was 
any  directing  Hand  behind  it  all,  working  out  some 
wonderful  plan,  creating  these  marvelous  beings  only  to 
destroy  them  before  they  had  an  opportunity  to  do  their 
part. 

She  had  often  felt  there  must  be  for  her  something, 
some  part,  to  be  worked  out  so  that  in  her  last  years 
there  would  come  what  surely  should  be  a  source  of  joy, 
the  thought  that  she  had  made  the  world  better  for 
having  lived. 

Not  fully  conscious  of  what  human  opinions  had 
decreed  as  right  and  wrong,  nevertheless,  from  her  child- 
hood she  had  often  thought  that  there  must  be  a  mistake, 
someone  making  mistakes  in  this  mysterious  plan,  and 
that  the  responsibility  could  be  traced  to  men  and  women 
who  did  not  seem  to  think  of  others,  nor  to  care  whether 
they  had  any  part,  except  to  be  happy  for  the  moment. 

But  why  should  men  and  women  be  like  this?  Surely 
if  she  could  have  a  part  in  this  great  plan  she  would 
want  to  do  things  to  make  others  happy.  Maybe  she 
was  a  part  of  that  plan !  Maybe  that  part  was  to  help 
change  human  hearts!  Surely  she  had  done  what  she 
set  out  to  do,  in  a  way.  She  had  never  been  satisfied 
that  she  was  doing  the  right  thing. 

Now,  she  was  happier  than  she  had  ever  been.  The 
obscuring  mists  had  suddenly  parted,  as  curtains  drawn 
aside,  revealing  new  and  wonderful  opportunities,  and 
her  heart  was  getting  very  full  of  fresh  desires,  and 
of  plans  to  be  worked  out,  here,  among  these  rough, 
simple  people.  Yet  there  was  the  little  white  coffin, 
with  only  a  lifeless  body,  soon  to  be  put  into  the  ground. 
And  there  was  a  heart-broken  mother,  who  was  never 
to  see  that  boyish  face  again.  Why?  Why? 


90  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Raines  was  talking.  He  had  been  talking  for  some 
time,  though  her  thoughts  had  made  her  deaf  to  his 
words.  He  was  saying  something  about  "God  having 
taken  the  loved  one  to  be  with  Him  in  heaven."  And 
then  he  said,  "The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh 
away.  Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lord !  Let  us  pray." 

During  the  prayer,  Nancy's  thoughts  played  riot  with 
her  heart. 

"The  Lord  taketh  away!  Blessed  be  the  Lord!" 
And  He  had  taken  Johnny  Powers,  this  fine,  promising 
little  fellow,  this  only  son  of  a  poor,  widowed  woman, 
whose  husband  had  given  his  life  that  others  might  live 
free.  And  the  Lord  had  done  that,  too — had  brought 
together  those  thousands  of  men  to  hate  each  other 
and  slaughter  each  other  upon  the  battlefield,  so  that  He 
might  take  them  away! 

Now  she  heard  her  name.  The  minister  was 
speaking. 

"Mrs.  Powers  has  asked  that  Mrs.  Swallow  will  sing 
the  song  she  sang  to  Johnny,  just  before  he  went  to  be 
with  God." 

Nancy  went  to  the  organ,  which  had  been  brought 
from  the  meeting  place  to  the  widow's  cottage.  But 
her  heart  was  in  a  revolutionary  mood ;  and  in  the  spirit 
that  rebelled  against  this  Lord,  who  "taketh  away," 
there  came  to  her  a  negro  mammy's  longing  for  the  boy 
the  slavers  had  taken  away.  It  was  a  wierd  thing,  a 
low,  murmuring  chant  rising  to  a  whining  moan  of 
the  wind,  as  she  had  heard  it  sung  by  the  negro  quartet 
in  Portsmouth  Square.  Now,  with  heart-deep  sympathy 
for  the  sorrowing  mother  there,  she  sang  it  as  perhaps 
it  had  never  been  sung  before: 


"THE  LORD  TAKETH  AWAY"  91 

Oh,  goody  Lawd!  goody  Lawd!  what  has  you  been  doin', 

To  let  'em  take  my  li'l  boy  'way? 
Bey's  stole  him  from  my  bres',  an'  now  he'll  never  res', 

A  cryin'  fer  his  mammy  all  the  day. 
Oh,  goody  Lawd!  goody  Lawd!  my  po'  heart  am  achin', 

For  de  li'l  boy  I'se  loved  so  many  years; 
Nevah  mo'  I'll  heah  him  say,  "Keep  de  debbil  man  away!" 

Nevah  mo'  c'n  I  kiss  away  his  tears. 
Goody  Lawd!  goody  Lawd!  you  giv'  dat  li'l  fellah, 

Jest  to  fill  my  po'  old  life  with  joy. 
So  I  ask  you  goody  Lawd,  what  has  you  been  doin', 

To  let  them  take  away  my  li'l  boyf 

The  song  ended,  she  glanced  toward  Raines.  He  was 
sitting  very  still,  his  elbows  on  the  table,  his  face  hidden 
in  his  hands.  There  was  death-like  silence  in  the  room, 
except  for  the  weeping  of  the  sorrowing  mother. 

Then  Martha  Channing  rose. 

"Let  us  sing  one  of  God's  precious  hymns,  now,"  she 
said,  and  began  alone : 

There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood, 

Drawn  from  Immanuel's  veins, 
And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood, 

Lose  all  their  guilty  stains. 

Several  rose  and  joined  with  her,  but  Raines  sat, 
with  face  covered,  until  they  were  through.  Then  he 
stood  up,  dried  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief,  and  went 
slowly  to  the  coffin.  He  turned  his  face  upward, 
extended  his  hands,  and  cried,  "Father  in  heaven,  forgive 
us.  Forgive  me,  for  I  have  been  blind.  In  the  name  of 
Jesus,  and  in  the  name  of  this  little  boy,  the  only  son 
of  a  sorrowing  mother,  this  boy  from  whose  little  inno- 
cent body  a  cruel,  devilish  hand  has  torn  the  spirit  thou 


92  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

gavest  him,  I  thank  thee  that  thou  has  deigned  to  reveal, 
in  this  wonderful  hour,  what  has  been  kept  so  long  from 
thine  unworthy  servant.  Comfort  this  afflicted  mother, 
in  her  grief  for  the  little  boy  who  has  been  taken  from 
her.  Make  her  to  realize  that  his  little  spirit  is  now  in 
thine  own  safekeeping  until  she  come." 

They  bore  the  coffin  of  little  Johnny  Powers  to  the 
bleak  cemetery,  barren  of  trees,  of  flowers,  of  grass.  But 
that  unmarked  grave  was,  for  years,  to  be  an  inspiration 
in  the  life  of  Parson  Raines,  that  led  him  to  a  remark- 
able career. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  COBBLER  KNIGHT 

A  day  or  two  later  Nancy,  returning  from  the  store, 
struck  her  boot  against  a  nail  in  the  old  plank  walk, 
tearing  a  hole  in  the  leather.  She  turned  about,  and  went 
to  the  shop  of  Hank  Evans,  the  shoemaker,  for  repairs. 

Hank  was  one  of  the  characters  of  Old  Town.  He 
was  a  man  of  sixty  years,  stubbly  beard,  stubborn  hair, 
kindly  gray  eyes,  and  good  natured;  a  sort  of  homely 
philosopher,  and  liked  by  everyone,  especially  the  chil- 
dren. Everyone  in  the  village,  except  Luke  Waters, 
addressed  him  as  "Mr.  Evans."  Luke  called  him  "Hank." 

What  had  made  him  of  considerable  importance  was, 
that  (according  to  village  rumor)  he  was  the  youngest 
son  of  the  youngest  son  of  the  son  of  an  English  noble- 
man; but  Hank's  lot,  from  childhood,  had  been  cast 
with  uneducated  though  honest  people,  and  he  had  fallen 
into  a  provincial  speech  that  was  decidedly  pioneer- 
American.  He  never  spoke  of  his  transatlantic  birth, 
unless  urged  to  do  so. 

"Mr.  Evans,"  said  Nancy,  after  she  had  curled  up  in 
one  of  his  big  chairs,  her  shoeless  foot  under  her  to  hide 
a  hole  in  her  stocking,  "will  you  tell  me  why  you  came 
way  out  here  in  the  West  to  live,  when  you  could  have 
lived  in  a  big  castle,  and  have  beautiful  parks,  and  serv- 
ants, and  hounds,  and  a  Table  Round,  and — and  other 


94  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

things,  in  England?"  She  remembered  the  stories  Dick 
read  to  her,  the  mornings  they  had  gone  together  down 
the  old  Presidio  trail  to  the  sea. 

Hank  put  the  little  boot  down,  tenderly,  and  let  his 
expression  of  sympathy  relax  into  a  broad  grin. 

"Sho,  now,  Mis'  Swallow !  Who  ha'  told  ye  such  non- 
sense? It  war  my  lady,  now,  I'll  warrant  ye."  When 
he  spoke  of  Mrs.  Evans,  he  always  called  her  "my  lady." 

Nancy  hastened  to  release  "my  lady"  from  all  respon- 
sibility in  the  matter,  as,  indeed,  she  had  heard  it,  with 
considerable  exaggeration,  from  the  children  of  the 
village. 

Hank,  trying  hard  to  match  a  bit  of  leather  to  that 
of  the  small  hole,  proceeded: 

"I  calc'late  some  fellers  might  ha'  done  different,"  he 
said.  The  truth  o'  the  matter  war,  Mis'  Swallow,  I 
sort  o'  lost  ambishun,  so  to  say,  afore  I  got  the  notion 
to  make  a  fight  fer  my  rights  in  them  estates." 

"What  made  you  lose  ambition?"  she  asked,  prompt- 
ing him,  for  he  took  a  long  time  to  squeeze  a  last  into 
the  injured  footgear. 

"Wall,  about  the  time  I  got  to  countin'  up  the  line 
o'  succession  to  the  throne,  so  to  say,  an'  calc'late  as 
to  w'at  the  perspections  war  o'  my  gittin'  my  hand  in, 
some  day  or  'nother,  I  finds  my  lady  waitin'  fer  a  perspect 
of  'er  own;  an'  thinkin'  as  how  a  bird  in  the  hand  is 
wort'  two  in  the  bush,  as  she  ha'  said  to  me  time  an' 
time  agin,  since,  I  makes  her  my  lady." 

"That  was  a  long  time  ago,  wasn't  it?" 

"Natur'ly,  yes,"  said  Hank.  "But  I'll  say  this  for  my 
lady,  and  fer  her  relashuns  as  I  haint  got  nothin'  agin, 
now,  po'r  critturs:  none  on  'em  knew  as  how  I  had  any 
English  rights  till  arterward.  Then  they  sort  o'  tuk 


THE  COBBLER  KNIGHT  95 

a  noshun  as  how  it  war  an  honor  to  live  'longside  o'  me, 
w'ich,  o'  course,  ended  up  in  them  livin'  inside  my  income. 
Makin'  the  long  and  the  short  o'  the  story,  fer  nigh  on 
to  seven  year  I  had  the  hull  mess  o'  six  on  'em,  picnackin' 
under  my  rooftree,  so  to  speak,  ma  an'  pa,  and  three 
dukem-flickem  girls  w'at  war  worse  'n  the  feller,  an'  he 
war  worse  'n  nothin'." 

Hank  paused,  and  held  his  breath,  while  he  rubbed  a 
sharp  blade  carefully  against  the  jagged  hole  in  the 
leather. 

"These  be  dainty-like  fer  Old  Town,"  he  said,  glanc- 
ing toward  a  miscellanous  collection  of  invalid  shoes 
belonging  to  some  of  the  village  housewives. 

"Oh,  I've  got  a  heavier  pair  than  these,  Mr.  Evans; 
these  are  my  house  shoes.  I  just  ran  down  to  the  store 
on  an  errand.  And  did  your  wife's  folks  stay  with  you, 
seven  years?" 

"They  did  that;  for  seven  hull  years.  An'  all  that 
time  my  lady  an'  her  ma  war  a  speculatin'  as  to  w'at 
they  c'ud  do  in  Lonnon  sassiety  if  I  would  only  assert 
my  English  rights.  Lor'  bless  ye,  Mis'  Swallow,  w'at 
c'ud  a  man  assert  w'en  workin'  nigh  two  days  in  one 
to  buy  grub  an'  decent  necessities.  An'  thar's  w'ere  I 
lost  it." 

"Lost  what?"  she  asked. 

"My  ambishun,"  said  Hank.  "In  seven  year  it  war 
clean  gone  as  ye  c'n  well  suppose.  Then  the  old  feller 
tuk  sick  an'  passed  in  his  checks.  It  war  just  as  well, 
fer  he  warn't  much  good,  nohow;  and  my  lady's  ma  she 
bawled  like  all  git  out  fer  awhile;  then  she  ups  an' 
marries  the  old  doctor  w'at  war  tryin'  afore  to  keep 
her  from  bein'  a  widder.  Rest  o'  the  brood  tuk  a  noshun 
to  go  an'  see  ma  one  day,  an'  same  time  I  tuk  the  Western 


96  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

fever,  an'  me  an'  my  lady  puts  out  fer  here.  But  sho! 
it  war  all  gone,  then!" 

"What  was  gone?" 

"My  ambishun,"  said  Hank,  as  he  gave  a  tug  at  the 
last  and  brought  it  out  of  the  shoe.  "Then,  arter  we  had 
been  here  a  spell,  my  lady  gits  word  that  one  o'  the 
family  had  tuk  sick  an'  died.  Fore  she  got  over  the 
shock,  'nother  one  war  gone.  It's  the  climit  that's 
doin'  it,'  my  lady  sez;  an'  she  writ  a  long  letter,  tellin' 
'em  about  the  beauties  o'  Washington,  an'  fer  to  'set 
sail  an'  steer  westward  ho,'  immegitly.  Owin'  to  an 
unfortunit  chance  o'  fate;  my  lady  ha'  give  me  the  letter 
to  mail,  an'  I  clean  fergot  to  post  it.  A  month  or  more 
arterward,  'nother  one  o'  the  sisters  had  gone  to  jine 
t'other,  po'r  thing,  an'  I  thinks  o'  the  letter;  but  o' 
course  I  daren't  say  to  my  lady  as  I  had  missed  to  post 
it.  Fore  I  thought  on't  agin,  her  ma,  she  war  gone,  too ; 
an'  the  paper,  w'at  ha'  come  to  us,  ha'  said  as  how  the 
old  doctor  war  tight  in  jail  fer  arsnickin'  the  hull  family. 
It  told  as  how  the  other  wife  o'  the  doctor  war  also  tuk 
off,  suddint  like.  But,  sho!  Wat's  the  use  o'  lockin' 
the  stable  door  w'en  the  'orse  is  tuk?" 

"And  what  happened  then?" 

"Wall,  the  old  feller  got  a  sentence  o'  'not  guilty,' 
bein'  as  how  he  testified  he  had  to  have  arsnick  'round 
fer  his  patients,  and  warn't  to  blame  if  some  of  'is  family 
tuk  it,  instead.  It  war  said,  too,  that  he  ha'  thought  as 
how  it  war  that  my  lady's  ma  would  fall  heritage  to  a 
rich  old  uncle's  pile.  My  lady's  brother,  who  ha'  tried 
the  case,  wrote  as  how  the  doctor  war  a  pretenshus 
member  o'  some  secret  sassiety,  that  war  powerful  influ- 
enshul  thar,  like  the  KuKluxbe  now  in  the  South." 

"And  what  did  you  do,  then?"  she  asked,  as  Hank 


THE  COBBLER  KNIGHT  97 

stopped  to  squeeze  the  patch  critically  between  his  finger 
and  thumb. 

"Fust  thing  I  did  war  to  post  the  letter,  an'  my  lady 
goes  humpin'  back  east  to  the  old  home,  to  see  if  thar 
war  anythink  left  fer  her.  Tuk  all  I  had  at  a  pop  that 
time." 

"All  your  ambition  ?" 

"All  my  money,"  said  Hank.  "Sho!  I  hadn't  had  no 
ambishun  fer  long  afore  that ;  though  I  war  a  bright  lad 
w'en  I  war  a  young  un,  I  hearn  tell — went  to  school,  an' 
Sunday  School,  an'  war  a  good  youngster.  That  war 
in  England.  Then  father  an'  mother  tuk  a  noshun  to 
come  to  Americky.  They  war  here  a  month  or  two, 
w'en  both  tuk  sick,  an'  I  war  left  an  orphun." 

"My,  that  was  awful !"  said  Nancy,  sympathetically. 
"And  what  did  you  do  then?"  She  pushed  her  foot  into 
the  repaired  boot,  and  held  it  out  for  the  shoemaker  to 
button  up. 

"Aint  it  suitin'  ye?"  he  asked,  beginning  to  pull 
it  off. 

"Yes,  yes;  button  it  up,  please,  Mr.  Evans."  She 
laughed  like  a  school  girl  as  Hank,  first  looking  to  see 
there  was  no  one  in  sight,  proceeded  to  fasten  the  buttons. 

"Don't  use  them  feet  much,  d'ye?"  he  said,  holding 
the  small  foot  in  his  hand,  while  he  gently  stroked  the 
new  patch.  "Sh'ud  think  they'd  be  like  walkin'  on  stilts." 

"I  never  walk  when  I  can  ride  my  pony,  Mr.  Evans. 
But  you  haven't  told  me  about  your  castles,  and  hounds, 
and  the  estates;  and  now  I  must  go  home,  or  Dick,  my 
husband,  '11  scold,  oh,  my!  if  he  gets  home  and  finds  I 
haven't  got  supper  ready." 

"Sh'udn't  think  he'd  ever  want  ye  to  go  'way,"  said 
Hank.  "Ye'd  better  bring  t'  other  shoe  in,  fust  time  ye 


98  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

can;  it's  'bout  to  bust  out,  thar  on  t'other  side." 

"And   then  you  must  tell  me  the  rest  about  your 

English  rights,"  said  Nancy,  as  she  went  out. 

"Come  airlier  next  time,  Mis'  Swallow,"  he  called  after 

her.    Then  he  sat  for  a  long  time,  staring  into  the  pile 

of  old  shoes. 

"Feller's  got  her,  's  got  ambishun,  or  I'm  a  goat !"  he 

exclaimed,  aloud.    Then  he  shut  up  shop,  and  went  home 

to  "my  lady." 


CHAPTER  XIV 
A  CROOKED  SPIRIT  IN  A  CROOKED  FRAME 

During  the  first  few  weeks,  Dick  had  been  working 
early  and  late,  inventorying  the  stock  and  assets  of  the 
General  Merchandise  Store,  and  in  overseeing  the  build- 
ing of  the  new  house.  Nancy  complained  some,  in  a 
girlish  way,  that  he  had  forgotten  how  to  be  the  lover 
he  formerly  was.  But  as  her  household  duties  were  not 
great,  and  the  vigorous  spirit  of  her  childhood  days  had 
returned,  tempting  her  to  the  river  and  to  the  hills,  she 
spent  a  part  of  nearly  every  day  on  her  pony's  back. 

Dick  loved  her  as  young  men  of  his  nature,  love.  He 
was  proud  of  her.  But,  having  secured  the  worshipped 
prize,  he  took  his  victory  as  a  matter  of  fact.  His  soul 
had  never  been  stirred  by  ambition,  except  for  things 
that  meant  the  satisfying  of  his  desires;  while  Nancy, 
the  opening  blossom  of  a  once  marred  and  stunted  flower, 
her  soul  invigorated  by  the  very  naturalness  of  village 
life,  began,  unknowingly,  to  feel  a  longing  in  her  breast, 
a  straining  at  her  heart,  thirsty  for  the  water  of  life  and 
hungry  for  the  co-operation  of  some  other  person  who 
saw  and  felt  as  she  did. 

Not  for  a  moment  had  she  any  thought  that  her  love 
for  Dick  was  not  the  love  a  wife  should  have.  She  did, 
at  times,  find  herself  wondering  if  this  unstirring,  un- 


100  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

stirred  feeling  in  her  heart,  was  the  whole  of  that  great 
thing  called,  love. 

In  the  week  following  the  funeral  of  Johnny  Powers, 
Nancy  had  cause  to  lean  more  upon  her  husband. 

Janet  Raines  came  over  to  the  Channings,  for  an  after- 
noon, bringing  her  sewing,  and  her  disposition  to  gossip. 
Janet  was,  as  has  been  told,  a  hunchback,  having  been 
born  crooked  and  weak,  a  pitiful  form  in  which  to  work 
out,  with  credit,  any  purpose  for  the  Creator  of  human 
life. 

Why,  or  how  these  tragic  things  happen,  what  it  is 
that  shakes  the  hand  of  the  Potter  and  deforms  the 
clay  shell  of  the  human  spirit,  is  a  great  mystery — one 
that  will,  some  day,  be  understood. 

What  we  do  know,  however,  is  that  man's  attempt 
to  right  the  wrong  by  so-called  scientific  methods,  is 
a  horrible  experiment;  and  for  each  "successful"  opera- 
tion countless  suffering,  hopeless  spirits  are  forced  from 
the  shells  of  earthly  habitation. 

Like  many  others  whose  lives  are  cramped  in  crooked 
frames,  Janet  had  a  tendency  to  see  the  evil  of  things, 
and  to  overlook  the  good. 

This  afternoon  she  found  Martha  in  a  receptive  mood. 
Raines  was  going  crazy.  She  was  sure  of  it.  To  think 
of  permitting  these  common,  unholy,  vulgar  songs  to 
take  a  place  among  their  accustomed  hymns  at  the  Sun- 
day meetings! 

Ignoring  the  remarkable  increase  in  the  church 
attendance,  she  was  not  awake  to  the  interest  many  of 
the  ranchers'  wives  were  showing  in  charitable  work 
about  the  village.  Not  seeing  this,  she  was  not  seeing, 
at  all,  the  importance  of  this  co-operation  between  Nancy 
Swallow  and  Parson  Raines.  So  there  was  scarcely  any 


A  CROOKED  SPIRIT  IN  A  CROOKED  FRAME  101 

bond  of  fellowship,  longer,  between  Martha  and  her 
brother's  wife. 

"Mrs.  Swallow  not  home?"  queried  Janet,  when  she 
was  comfortably  settled. 

"She  is  at  the  store,  helping  Dick  do  something  or 
other,"  said  Martha. 

Janet  hitched  her  chair  slightly  toward  Mrs.  Chan- 
ning's. 

"Let  us  be  glad  she  is  helping  her  husband!"  she 
said,  in  a  meaning  tone,  that  caused  Martha  to  regard 
her,  questioningly. 

"Since  Mrs.  Swallow  came  to  Old  Town — sorrow  the 
day,  I'm  thinking  at  times — my  brother  is  a  changed 
man,"  Janet  went  on.  "He  talks  about  nothing  but  Mrs. 
Swallow,  and," — in  a  whisper — "he  is  now  calling  her 
Nancy.  Yesterday,  in  his  room,  he  took  out  from  his 
drawer  a  glove,  and  I'll  swear  he  put  it  against  his  lips. 
Afterwards,  I  looked,  and  it  was  a  woman's  glove — 
Mrs.  Swallow's  I'll  warrant." 

"Yes,"  said  Martha,  musingly,  "I  heard  Nancy  say 
she  had  lost  a  glove.  He  must  have  found  it." 

"Such  goings  on !"  said  Janet,  letting  fall  her  needle, 
and  dramatically  holding  up  her  hands.  "I  know  she's 
leading  him  on — I  know  it;  and  where  it's  all  to  end, 
the  Lord  only  knows." 

Martha  had  never  had  such  a  thought  as  this  about 
Nancy.  She  scarcely  knew  what  to  think,  now.  Her 
amazement  left  her  dumb. 

"I  never  told  you,  Mrs.  Channing,  what  she  did,  first 
day  she  came,"  Janet  went  on.  She  spied  Billy  Ki-Ki 
on  his  horse,  and  she  says,  soon  as  she  got  off  the  stage 
and  set  her  eyes  on  him,  'Aint  he  a  handsome  man!' 
Worse  yet,  she  went  right  up  to  him  and  says,  encourag- 


102  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

ing  like,  'I  want  a  horse  just  like  yours  sometime.'  Billy 
was  so  disgusted  he  never  answered,  but  rode  right  off." 

"Oh,  no,  Janet!"  protested  Martha.  "You  must  be 
mistaken,  for  Dick  was  with  her,  and  she  wouldn't  dared 
have  done  that!" 

"She  did,  Mrs.  Channing.  I'd  swear  she  did.  Luke 
Waters'  girl  was  there,  and  heard  it,  too." 

"It's  best  we  do  not  talk  about  it  any  more,"  said 
Martha,  fearfully.  She  was  really  frightened  at  the 
thought  that  it  all  might  be  true. 

After  Janet  had  gone,  Martha  resolved  to  tell  Dick. 
When  Burke  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  store — it  being 
his  turn  for  night  work — she  asked  him  to  tell  Dick 
she  must  see  him  alone,  immediately. 

When  her  brother  came,  he  found  her  more  convinced 
of  Nancy's  guilt. 

"Dick,  you  must  know  that  everyone's  talking  about 
the  way  Nancy  is  carrying  on  with  Parson  Raines." 

"Why,  Martha  what  do  you  mean?  How  dare  you 
say  such  things?" 

"I'm  only  telling  you  what  others  have  said  to  me. 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it,  myself,  if  Janet  Raines  hadn't 
told  me  it,  right  here  in  this  room,  today." 

"Told  you  what?"  he  asked,  too  astonished  to  com- 
prehend. 

She  repeated  what  Janet  had  said. 

"It's  a  lie!  a  damned  lie,  Martha!  And  you  know 
it!  You  don't  like  Nancy.  I  have  seen  it.  So  has  she, 
I  know,  for  she  says  she  will  begin  to  be  happy  when 
we  get  into  our  own  house.  Nancy  never  said  that  to 
Billy  Ki-Ki.  I  heard  what  she  said.  So  did  everyone 
else — except  Janet.  She  said,  'What  a  handsome  horse !' 


A  CROOKED  SPIRIT  IN  A  CROOKED  FRAME  103 

— that's  all.  You're  just  making  trouble.  You  can't  help 
it.  It's  your  damned  religion!  Your  Christianity!" 

Martha's  hands  went  to  her  ears,  horrified. 

"Dick !  Dick !  don't  swear.  Wherever  did  you  learn  to 
swear  ?  After  you  married  her,  no  doubt.  You  never  did 
before!" 

"You,  and  your  lying  scandal-mongers,  and  your 
Christianity  can  go  to  hell !"  he  cried. 

He  jerked  the  door  open,  went  out,  and  slammed  it 
hard. 

Before  he  went  back  to  the  store,  he  walked  up  one 
street,  and  down  another  to  think,  to  cool  off.  Then 
he  resolved  to  tell  Nancy  what  he  had  heard. 

"Dick,  don't  you  mind,  dear,"  she  said.  Don't  you 
feel  that  way  toward  Martha.  Poor  Janet,  she  doesn't 
feel  like  other  people — like  us,  in  that  crippled  body. 
I'll  stop  going  to  church,  and  I  won't  see  Mr.  Raines 
again,  alone,  anywhere.  Then  it'll  come  out  all  right." 


CHAPTER  XV 
IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN 

Hank  Evans,  the  Old  Town  shoemaker,  was  telling 
Luke  Waters,  a  "Lincoln"  story.  Even  then  had  begun 
what  was  later  to  become  an  epidemic  of  stories,  the 
origin  of  which  was  to  be  attributed  to  the  martyred 
president  who,  no  doubt,  would  have  enjoyed  hearing 
some  of  them,  himself.  Men  of  the  North  liked  to  talk 
familiarly  of  Lincoln  under  any  pretense,  and  these  ques- 
tionable anecdotes  of  doubtful  origin  were  to  become 
the  medium  through  which  the  lesser  citizen  might  feel 
he  had  a  share  in  the  revered  memory  of  Nancy  Hank's 
remarkable  son. 

"They  tell  as  how  Lincoln  war  in  one  o'  them  big 
cities  'lectioneering.  He  never  war  sot  much  on  style  ye 
know,  Luke,  jest  stopped  splittin'  a  rail  an'  answered  the 
call  o'  his  party.  He  war  standin'  on  a  corner,  waitin'  to 
git  a  hoss  car.  Nearabout  was  a  frisky  young  heifer 
a  skylarkin'  with  some  fellers,  a  histin'  her  dress  an* 
kickin'  at  a  feller's  hat,  w'at  he  held  up.  Wen  she  ha' 
spied  Lincoln,  she  ha'  gone  up  to  him  an'  sez,  'Hello, 
Uncle  Rube,  ha'  ye  seen  anythink  o'  my  cow  hereabouts?* 
'No,'  sez  Abe,  'I  haint  seen  nothin'  o'  yure  cow,  but  I 
reckon  I  ha'  seen  a  couple  o'  likely  calves  o'  yourn,  minnit 
or  two  ago.' " 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  105 

"D'ye  think  the  war  had  to  be,  Hank?"  Luke  asked, 
after  shifting  about  a  few  times  to  get  his  rheumatic  leg 
in  a  comfortable  posture. 

"Wall,  Luke,"  said  Hank,  vigorously  cleaning  his  shoe 
knife  after  the  old  rancher  had  used  it  to  separate  a 
liberal  piece  of  tobacco  from  his  plug,  "Lincoln  war 
right  w'en  he  sez  a  nashun  divided  agin  itself  can't  stand 
fer  long.  My  concepshun  air  that  this  'ere  nashun  be 
jest  as  divided  now  as  afore,  an'  allus  will  be,  'count  o' 
havin'  the  war.  Ye  can't  make  busom  friends  o'  the 
childurn  by  killin'  their  dads ;  an'  ye  can't  count  on  them 
Southerners  eatin'  out  o'  yure  hand  jest  cause  ye  turned 
the  niggers  loose  on  'em.  I  haint  sayin'  as  I  be  n't  jest 
as  loyal  as  t'other  feller,  but  I  ha'  thought,  Luke,  it 
warn't  sympathy  fer  the  niggers  that  ha'  started  the 
war." 

"Wat  ye  sayin'  it  war,  Hank  ?" 

"Same  thing  that  ha'  started  all  wars,  Luke.  T'other 
rich  feller  hain't  got  suthin'  'nother  rich  feller's  got,  an' 
in  order  to  scare  him  away  w'ile  he  grabs  it,  he'll  start 
a  hellabaloo  one  way  or  'nother.  Thing  w'at  starts  most 
wars  air  a  love  fer  money  by  them  fellers  w'at's  buyin' 
an'  sellin'  fer  profit.  I  haint  sayin'  as  I'm  fer  slav'ry  o' 
any  kind  o'  critturs,  niggers  er  white,  but  my  noshun  be 
that  if  slaves  could  ha'  been  stole  from  Rushy  or  Chiny, 
w'at  could  ha'  lived  in  the  North,  thar  wouldn't  ha'  been 
no  war." 

Luke  squinted  at  Hank  through  his  half-shut  eyes 
for  a  moment,  his  jaws  working  up  and  down  to  the 
beats  of  Hank's  hammer  on  the  sole  of  a  boot. 

"Ye  aint  no  more  a  copperhead  'n  I  be,  Hank,  on  that 
pint,"  he  said,  as  Hank  paused  a  moment  to  rest  his 
hammer  on  his  knee.  "Them  Union  fellers  couldn't  git 


106  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

down  to  toothpicks  with  the  South  w'en  it  come  to  per- 
doocin'.  W'en  ye  can  git  work  done  fer  most  nothin' 
ye  can  sell  it  fer  less  'n  the  feller  w'at's  doin*  it  hisself. 
Ye'll  see  the  niggers  '11  stay  South  an'  work  jest  as 
cheap.  The  chance  the  North  ha'  took  agin  the  cheap 
perdoocin'  air  that  the  nigger's  a  lazy  crittur  an'  now's 
he's  free  he  won't  work  'slong's  he's  got  two  bits." 

"P'raps  so." 

"W'at'll  the  South  do,  Hank,  with  all  them  niggers 
now  that  they  got  to  give  'em  same  kind  o'  chanct  as 
any  human  bein'?" 

"Wall,  Luke,  I  ha'  been  thinkin'  'taint  so  much  w'at 
they  got  to  do  now  as  w'at  they'll  have  to  do  w'en  they 
git  more  on  'em.  Niggers  '11  multiply  like  rabbits  now 
they  air  free  to  go  here  an'  thar  as  they  like.  Then,  Luke, 
they  air  goin'  to  make  a  heap  o'  trouble  fer  the  gov- 
er'ment  'count  o'  wantln'  to  have  a  say  in  politics  ev'ry- 
w'ere  they  be.  I  ha'  thought  time  '11  come  w'en  they'll 
have  to  gi'n  'em  a  state  an'  let  'em  run  it  theirselves.  I 
ha'  thought  might  be  great  thing  to  buy  hull  north  end 
o'  Mexico  an*  turn  it  over  to  the  niggers  an'  let  'em 
have  their  own  pres'dent  an'  congress  an'  sech.  Mexico 
air  goin'  to  make  us  trouble  agin  sooner  or  later  an' 
p'raps  time  haint  fur  away  w'en  the  U.  S.  will  be  makin' 
'em  give  us  a  new  treaty.  Mexico  '11  allus  be  poorer  'n 
a  church  mouse,  an'  '11  be  glad  to  sell  off  enough  land 
to  make  a  big  nigger  territory — bigger  'n  some  o'  our 
states  be,  now.  W'udn't  be  a  bad  thing,  Luke,  to  have 
sech  a  kentry  between  us  an'  them  onery  greasers,  w'at  '11 
be  allus  makin'  us  trouble  on  the  border.  It  'ud  make 
them  niggers  more  valuable  to  this  gover'ment  if  they 
git  a  chanct  fer  runnin'  theirselves." 

"W'at  'ud  the  South  do  'bout  sech  a  thing,  Hank? 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  107 

They  got  to  have  work  done  an'  they'd  holler  to  keep 
the  niggers  from  goin'.  It  'ud  be  like  pickin'  thistles 
out  o'  a  sore  spot  to  try  to  take  the  niggers  away  from 
'em." 

"Wall,  Luke,  it  'ud  be  better  to  git  the  thistles  out 
w'ile  ye  can  hold  the  feller  down,  'stead  o'  waitin'  till 
he's  got  sore  spots  all  over  him.  The  hull  South  air 
goin'  to  have  more'n  one  sick  spell  'count  o'  the  niggers 
bein'  free,  an'  time  is  goin'  to  come  w'en  the  niggers 
'11  leave  an'  go  to  other  states  w'ere  they  haint  wanted. 
Then  the  hull  kentry  '11  have  sore  spots  an'  ev'ry  nig- 
ger '11  be  like  a  pricker.  As  I  see  it,  Luke,  if  this  gov- 
er'ment  o'  the  United  States  don't  take  the  chanct  w'ile 
they  got  it  to  'stablish  the  hull  caboodle  o'  niggers  by 
theirselves  an'  learn  'em  how  to  be  cit'zens  o'  'a  land  o' 
the  free,'  as  the  Jedge  sez,  the  hull  kentry  some  day'll 
be  like  a  feller  broke  out  with  the  smallpox  w'at  ha'  got 
to  be  put  away  by  hisself  to  save  the  rest  o'  the  people." 

"How  ye  goin'  to  learn  'em,  Hank?  They  got  'bout 
as  much  sense  as  a  flea — some  on  'em?" 

"A  flea  ha'  got  more  sense  'n  some  fellers,  Luke,  fer 
same  reason  ye  can  learn  the  niggers.  Ye  got  to  give 
'em  respons'bility.  Now  the  gover'ment  ha'  got  the  yoke 
o'  slav'ry  off  their  necks  they  got  to  be  tolt  there  haint 
no  sech  thing  as  a  yoke,  or  the  p'or  cusses  '11  be  tryin' 
to  put  their  heads  in  it  agin,  like  they  allus  war.  Never 
war  no  man,  black  or  white,  w'at  the  Lord  God  c'udn't 
give  sense  to  if  the  feller  got  to  hankerin'  to  know 
suthin' ;  an'  the  more  sense  the  Lord  gives  him  the  more 
powerful  his  brain'll  git  to  do  big  things." 

Luke  reached  out  his  knotted  stick,  got  a  hook-hold 
on  the  sawdust  box  and  drew  it  to  him. 

"Ye  be  a  wonder,  Hank,"  he  said,  after  depositing  his 


108  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

derelict  quid  in  the  box.  "Ye  s'hud  be  president  o'  this 
kentry  so's  ye  c'ud  make  houn'  dogs  into  b'ars,  an' 
canary  birds  inter  American  eagles.  Ye  ha'  been  lookin' 
at  the  bottom  o'  fellers  boots  fer  so  long  ye  think  the 
hull  world's  upside  down  standin'  on  their  heads.  'Fore 
the  gover'ment  o'  this  kentry  gits  the  sense  w'at  ye  got 
'bout  them  niggers  an'  sech,  the  worms  '11  be  playin'  hide 
an'  seek  among  yure  bones — an'  mine,  too."  Then,  grin- 
ningly,  with  the  aid  of  Hank's  knife  he  filled  a  cheek  with 
fresh  tobacco. 

"Wall,  Luke,  p'raps  ye  might  be  a  slave  yureself  this 
minnit  if  it  warn't  fer  w'at  some  feller  ha'  thought  on  an' 
said  it  afore  he  passed  in  his  checks;  an'  the  worms  ha' 
et  him  fer  quite  a  spell  afore  the  world  ha'  tuk  notice. 
A  poet  feller  ha'  said  onct  'the  big  things  a  feller  does 
lives  arterward,  but  the  fool  ha'  put  an  end  to  hisself." 

Luke's  jaws  worked  slowly  as  though  he  were  try- 
ing to  masticate  Hank's  quotation  along  with  his  mix- 
ture of  nicotine  and  molasses,  but,  apparently,  he  had 
no  answer  ready. 

He  got  up  and  shoved  his  chair  nearer  the  door  to 
get  away  from  a  ray  of  sunlight  that  was  coming 
through  a  slit  in  the  window  shade,  and  sat  down  again. 

"Luke,"  said  Hank,  thoughtfully  scrutinizing  the  old 
rancher's  face,  "w'at  'ud  ye  done  if  ye  'd  been  president  ?" 

Luke  shot  a  stream  of  tobacco  juice  into  the  sawdust 
box  and  shifted  his  cud  to  the  other  cheek  where  he 
worked  upon  it  industriously  a  moment  as  he  squinted, 
searchingly,  at  the  cobbler. 

"Can't  say  jest  w'at  a  feller  'd  do  w'en  he's  gi'n  a  job 
o'  pleasin'  the  cusses  w'at  air  tryin'  to  make  him  b'lieve 
they  g'in  it  to  him.  Fust  place,  he's  got  to  ch'ice  twixt 
his  bosses  clus  to  home,  an'  w'at  t'other  fellers  want, 


\ 

\ 

\    \ 

IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  109 

five  hundred  miles  off;  an'  if  he  don't  ch'ice  fer  the  fel- 
lers 'at  put  him  thar — er  sez  they  did,  he  better  make 
his  will  an'  say  his  prayers  damn  quick.  That's  all  ye'll 
ever  git  out  o'  a  democracy  or  republic,  any  time.  Thar'll 
allus  be  injestice  o'  the  majority  on  the  menority.  By 
Gawd,  Hank,  if  we  could  git  the  right  feller  fer  the  job, 
I'd  whoop  'er  up  fer  a  monarchy,  s'help  me!" 

Hank  pushed  the  sawdust  box  nearer  Luke  who,  in 
his  exciting  conclusions,  was  losing  the  range. 

"I  ain't  so  far  from  yure  concepshun  myself,  Luke," 
he  said,  quietly,  tapping  his  aproned  knee  with  an  awl. 
"Only  thing  'at  stands  agin  it  is  the  feller  fer  the  job. 
Reason  I  see  it  that  way  is  'count  o'  the  scriptur  w'ich 
sez,  'a  King  shall  reign  in  righteousness'  some  day,  w'en 
the  Kingdom  o'  the  Lord  ha'  come.  The  Lord  ha'  knowd 
jest  's  long  a  nashun  air  tryin'  to  run  itself  by  the  people 
an'  fer  the  people,  it'll  be  a  humbug.  It'll  allus  be  the 
tail  waggin'  the  dorg,  'count  o'  the  men  w'at  ha'  got  the 
most  money  will  allus  pick  out  the  fellers  w'at  air  to  rule 
the  majority  w'at  has  to  work  fer  a  livin'  an'  haint 
got  time  to  take  a  hand  in  the  pickin'.  But,  sho!  the 
major'ty  fellers  ha'  all  got  differ'nt  ideas  how  to  run  a 
gover'ment,  an'  if  they  sh'd  git  a  say  in,  they'd  git  to 
fightin'  'mongst  themselves.  S'long's  men  an'  women 
air  jest  human  bein's  they'll  never  git  equal  jestice  till 
they  git  the  King  the  Lord  ha'  promised." 

"W'at  ye  think  ye'd  done,  Hank,  if  ye'd  been  king  o' 
'Mericky.  C'ud  ye  a  fixed  things  with  the  South  'thout 
goin'  to  war?" 

"I  dunno,  Luke.  I  ain't  sayin'  as  any  man  couldn't 
do  the  right  thing  if  the  Lord  give  him  wisdom.  Can't 
b'lieve  'at  the  Lord  ever  wanted  any  contenshun  settled 
by  widders  an'  orphuns." 


110  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Don't  yure  Good  Book  say  as  how  the  Lord  sicked 
'em  on  each  other  Hisself,  an'  tolt  the  Bible  fellers  to 
kill  the  men  an'  take  the  widders  an'  orphuns?  A  feller 
ha'  tolt  me  that  onct,  an'  said  it  war  in  the  Bible,  Hank." 

"I  ha'  never  seen  it  myself,  Luke.  Mebbe  it  sez  that. 
But  if  I  read  it  I'd  never  b'lieve  the  Lord  ha'  writ  it." 

"Warn't  the  Bible  writ  by  the  Lord,  Hisself,  Luke? 
I  allus  ha'  heerd  that's  w'at  yure  preachers  tell." 

"I  never  see  that  in  the  Bible,  either,  Luke.  If  I  sh'd 
find  it,  I'd  know  some  feller  'd  lied.  Fellers  w'at  writ  the 
Bible — or  some  on  'em,  might  ha'  been  jest  's  big  liars  as 
some  o'  the  preachers  w'at  'ud  write  it  now.  I  haint 
sayin'  as  I  ha*  found  anythink  I  don't  b'lieve,  but  show 
me  suthin'  wicked  w'at  it  sez  the  Lord  ha'  done,  an'  I'll 
say  the  feller  w'at  ha'  writ  it  war  a  liar.  The  Lord  ha' 
give  men  brains  so's  they  can  tell  w'at  air  true,  an' 
w'en  a  feller  sez  ye  can't  b'lieve  any  o'  it  jest  'cause  ye 
find  a  lie,  ye  can  tell  that  feller  his  brains  ha'  slip'  down 
to  t'other  end.  I  ha'  read,  Luke,  that  the  Lord  ha'  said, 
Thou  shalt  not  kill,'  an'  no  brainless  cuss  air  goin'  to 
make  me  b'lieve  the  Lord  air  changin'  His  own  orders." 

"Ye  haint  tolt  me  w'at  ye'd  done  to  stop  the  war  from 
beginnin',  Hank,  s'posin'  yure  Lord  ha'  gi'n  ye  wisdom, 
an'  sech,  as  ye  say,  an'  a  chance  same  as  Lincoln.  W'at 
ye  sayin'  Hank?" 

"I  ha'  thought  'bout  a  lot  o'  things  might  ha'  been 
done,  Luke.  My  noshun  war  that  if  Lincoln  had  given 
them  secceeders  the  hull  South,  an'  ha'  then  put  a  high 
tax  on  w'at  the  South  wants  to  sell  the  North,  the  Union 
fellers  'ud  stopped  hollerin'  fer  war,  an'  in  less'n  ten 
years  the  secceeders  ha'  wanted  to  git  back  in  the  Union 
agin,  an'  ha'  freed  the  niggers  fer  the  priv'ledge.  'Nother 
way  might  ha'  been:  The  major'ty  could  ha'  voted  a  law 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  111 

w'at  sez  all  fellers  w'at  ha'  got  money  an'  property  air 
to  turn  half  o'  it  to  the  widders  an'  orphuns,  an'  to  the 
heroes  w'at  ha'  done  the  heroeing.  I  haint  sayin*  as 
Lincoln  wan't  right,  'cordin'  to  his  noshun.  But  ye  can 
bet  the  seat  o'  yure  pants,  Luke,  that  w'en  they  say  the 
Lord  haint  got  no  other  wisdom  but  to  make  widders  an' 
orphuns,  an'  one-legged  fellers  w'at  air  called  heroes,  an' 
give  six  dollars  a  month  fer  bein'  sech,  they  reckon  the 
Lord's  a  fool.  The  kentry  w'at  couldn't  stand  'count 
o'  bein'  divided  agin  itself  afore  the  war,  '11  have  to  stand 
fer  a  damn  long  time  yit,  divided.  Time's  comin'  w'en 
this  nashun  '11  be  more  yit  divided  into  two  parts  noways 
equal,  the  fellers  w'at  ha'  got  more  money  'n  they  need, 
an',  the  fellers  w'at  haint  got  more  'n  enough  to  live  on 
day  in  an'  day  out.  Ye  don't  have  to  have  niggers  jest 
to  have  slaves.  Thar  haint  much  diff'rence  w'ether  a 
feller  air  workin'  fer  his  grub  an'  gunnysack,  or  w'ether 
he  air  gittin'  just  enough  to  buy  his  grub  an'  a  rag  t'hide 
his  nakedness.  But,  sho!  'taint  so  much  w'at  a  feller 
gits  or  don't  git,  w'at  makes  him  a  slave.  It's  the  fear 
o'  not  allus  gittin'  a  chanct  to  git  grub  an'  sech,  fer  him 
an'  the  missus.  Grub,  an'  clothes,  an'  a  rooftree  air 
w'at  sez  as  w'ether  a  man  is  a  slave  or  not.  If  I  war  presi- 
dent, Luke,  fust  thing  I'd  do,  I'd  make  the  gover'ment 
own  ev'rythink  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  intended  ev'ry  man 
sh'ud  have  free,  or  fer  jest  the  charge  o'  perdoocin'.  That 
'ud  stop  slav'ry  quickern  ye  can  say  'scat!'  An'  it  'ud 
make  fellers  a  heap  sight  better  cit'zens,  'cordin'  to  my 
noshun.  The  Lord  never  intended  niggers  or  white 
fellers  to  be  slaves  'count  o'  fear." 

"Wall,  Hank,  yure  noshun  air  purty  good  fer  a  shoe- 
maker w'at  haint  got  to  be  president  yit;  but  afore  ye 
see  that  thing  come,  ye'll  find,  mebbe,  the  slaves  ha' 


112  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

got  a  noshun  that  it's  time  fer  another  war.  S'long  they 
make  pistols  an'  guns,  an'  weppin's  to  kill,  that'll  be  war." 

"Ye  air  right  on  that  pint,  Luke.  War  ha'  never 
settled  anythink,  yet.  It  jest  makes  the  rich  men  richer 
an'  the  poor  man  poorer  'n  ever.  It's  like  quenchin'  o'  a 
feller's  thirst  with  likker.  Ev'ry  drink  ye  give  him  makes 
him  hanker  fer  another.  'Nother  thing  war  does  is 
t'make  a  lot  o'  good  men  inter  devils.  Fellers  w'at  goes 
to  war,  'fore  they  goes  wouldn't  kill  a  chicken  fer  dinner. 
Wen  they  come  back  they  air  so  chuck  full  o'  murder 
they'll  kill  a  feller  if  he  jest  arsks  a  fool  question.  Then 
the  gover'ment  thinks  they  got  to  hang  the  feller  'stead 
o'  trying  to  find  some  way  to  git  the  p'or  cuss  back  to 
his  right  senses.  Wen  men  find  out  they  can't  git  rid 
o'  the  spirit  o'  evil  by  killin'  the  feller,  mebbe  they'll 
stop  hangin'  fellers.  Gover'ment  murder  jest  makes  more 
devils  git  into  other  fellers  to  kill  someon'  else,  next  day. 
Wen  the  gover'ment  hangs  a  feller,  it  be  jest  admittin' 
the  hull  caboodle  on  'em  air  'fraid  o'  one  p'or  single  cuss, 
an'  ha'  got  to  kill  him  'cause  they  dont  know,  arter  five 
thousan'  years,  how  to  cure  him.  It's  same  thing  with 
them  deadly  operashuns  in  the  horspitals.  Ev'ry  time 
them  doctor  fellers  cut  suthin'  out  o'  a  feller,  they  be 
admittin'  the  guilt  that  after  five  thousan'  years  they  dont 
know  how  to  cure  him." 

"W'at  yure  parsons  sayin'  about  that,  Hank?" 

Hank  dropped  the  boot  he  was  working  on  and  threw 
up  both  hands. 

"Fellers  w'at  writ  the  hell  doctrin's  o'  the  churches 
haint  writ  much  'bout  the  devils  Christ  ha'  b'lieved  in, 
an'  most  o'  the  parsons  ha'  got  to  b'lieve  there  haint  no 
devils  an'  sech." 

"Hank,  they  tell  as  how  it  war  croolty  o'  them  fellers 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  113 

w'at  w'ipped  the  niggers  an'  sicked  bloodhoun's  on  'em, 
an'  took  the  poor  cusses  away  from  their  fam'lies,  was 
w'at  made  the  war.  Some  woman  ha'  writ  a  book  'bout 
a  nigger  named  'Tom'  suthin'  or  other.  Laury  ha' 
read  it." 

"My  lady  ha'  read  it,  an'  she  ha'  bawled  like  all  git 
out,  an'  said  she'd  like  to  shoot  some  o'  them  fellers.  Sho ! 
Thar's  more  niggers  bein'  kilt  by  them  Ku  Klux  fellers, 
now,  than  ha'  been  hurt  afore  the  war.  Don't  look's 
that's  goin'  to  start  the  fightin'  again.  Thar'll  be  hangin' 
o'  niggers  by  hundurds  an'  thousan's,  an'  they'll  burn 
niggers  by  fire — thousan's  on  'em,  'fore  them  Southern 
cusses  '11  be  satisfied.  They  got  to  spite  it  on  some  one ; 
but  ye  won't  see  no  more  war  'count  o'  that." 

"Them  Ku  Klux  fellers  air  a  lot  o'  yaller  coyotes, 
Hank,  'cordin'  to  my  noshun.  They  tell  as  how  they  go 
in  a  pack  all  hid  up,  head  an'  all,  with  a  sheet,  jest  to  kill 
one  nigger.  Haint  no  worse  to  set  bloodhoun's  on  'em. 
A  nigger's  got  a  chanct  from  a  dorg." 

"Wall,  Luke,  w'en  a  feller  ha'  got  a  yaller  streak  he 
gits  a  hankerin'  to  hide  his  head  with  a  sheet,  er  suthin', 
so's  he  can  do  his  dirty  work  'thout  bein'  found  out.  Ye 
air  insultin'  a  coyote  to  call  him  a  'Ku  Klux,  Luke.  A 
coyote  air  a  coward,  an'  he  haint  carin'  who  knows  it. 
But  them  Ku  Klux  fellers  hide  an'  go  in  packs,  so's 
nobody  won't  find  w'at  cowardly  skunks  they  be.  Tank 
sez  the  fellers  o'  the  range  air  talkin'  o'  ridin'  down  thar, 
a  few  hundred  on  'em,  an'  run  the  yaller  skunks  into  their 
holes.  Ye  never  heerd  o'  a  cowboy  puttin'  his  head  in  a 
sack  w'en  he  starts  out  fer  a  killin'.  He  may  be  a  ornery 
cuss,  but  he  gives  t'other  man  a  chanct  to  see  w'os 
doin'  it. 

"Laury  sez  as  how  them  Ku  Kluxes  don't  stop  at 


114  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

men  niggers,  but  a  pack  on  'em  '11  take  a  lone  nigger 
woman  out  o'  her  home  an'  kill  her  jest  as  quick's  a 
man  nigger." 

"Like's  not.  A  feller  w'at  hankers  to  hide  his  face 
aint  a  feller  w'at  'd  dare  tackle  a  man,  alone.  He'd 
more'n  likely  go  arter  a  woman.  If  truth  war  out  ye'd 
find  most  o'  them  Ku  Klux  fellers  ha'  did  worse  things 
theirselves  than  the  fellers  they  go  arter.  They  holler 
about  t'other  feller  so's  no  one  won't  be  seein'  what  they 
be  theirselves." 

"Here  comes  Bud,  Hank.  Arsk  him  w'at  he  thinks 
'bout  the  war,  now.  He  got  his  belly  full,  I'm  thinkin', 
w'en  he  lost  that  arm." 

"Bud"  Andrews,  well  built  but  roughly  dressed,  about 
thirty  years  old,  with  an  empty  right  sleeve  evidencing 
his  war  experience,  came  into  the  shop.  He  nodded  to 
Luke,  threw  a  disabled  boot  into  Hank's  lap,  and  turned 
to  go  out. 

"Hey,  Bud!  Wat's  yure  hurry?  Hank  ha'  arsked 
me  w'at  'ud  I  done  if  I  war  president,  'stead  o'  Lincoln, 
an'  I  ha'  arsked  him  how  he  cu'd  ha'  stopped  goin'  to 
war.  W'at  you  got  to  say  'bout  it?" 

Bud  looked  from  the  rancher  to  the  shoemaker,  ran 
his  left  hand  up  under  his  sombrerro,  and  spat  in  the 
sawdust. 

"Wall,  Luke,  I  got  this  much  to  say,  an'  I  haint  carin' 
a  damn  who  hears  me  say  it.  Jest  as  long's  you  got  men 
hankerin'  to  git  into  war  afore  they're  druv  in,  ye'll  have 
war,  Lincolns  or  no  Lincolns.  Arter  this,  no  man's  goin' 
to  tell  me  who's  a  hero.  He  haint  one  o'  them  volunteers 
like  I  war  damn  fool  enough  to  be.  I  haint  got  one  damn 
word  to  say  agin  a  feller  w'at'll  climb  in  a  window  an* 
kill  a  man  who  trys  to  kill  him  fer  bein'  thar.  That's 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  115 

his  business,  an'  prob'ly  he  ha'  got  to  be  that-a-way. 
But  a  man  who  grabs  his  gun  an'  sez,  'Let  me  git  a  shot 
at  em !'  like  I  war  damn  fool  enough  fer  sayin',  gits  a 
chance  damn  quick  enough  to  find  out  he  haint  no  hero 
'tall,  but  jest  a  damn  fool  who  didn't  know  that  patriotism 
represents  jest  two  words,  politics  and  murder,  spelt 
w-a-r.  We  don't  want  any  more  Washingtons,  an'  we 
don't  need  any  more  Lincolns.  We  want  jest  two  laws, 
one  w'ich  sez  thar  shan't  be  no  more  weppins  o'  warfare 
made;  the  other  that  any  damn  man  who  volunteers  to 
go  out  to  kill  men  they  never  see,  an'  make  widders  an' 
orphuns,  air  to  be  put  in  a  Andersonville  prison  rest  o' 
his  life — w'ich  won't  be  fer  long.  You  got  my  noshun  o' 
war,  an'  w'at  I'd  do  if  I  was  head  o'  this  kentry,  an' 
damn  me  if  ev'ry  damn  man  in  my  comp'n'y  w'at  be 
alive,  aint  agreed  with  me." 

Having  delivered  his  profanity-punctured  oration, 
Bud  spat  savagely  at  the  sawdust  box,  wiggled  his  empty 
sleeve  from  the  stump  of  his  arm,  off  near  the  shoulder, 
and  started  to  leave. 

At  the  door  he  stopped.  He  turned  and  looked  from 
Luke  to  Hank,  then  came  slowly  back  into  the  room. 

"My  Gawd,  Luke,  I  never  want  to  see  another  war  in 
my  time,"  he  began.  "It's  jest  killin'  an'  tryin'  to  kill 
men  ye  haint  got  one  damn  thing  agin.  I  never  knowed 
to  kill  but  one  man,  many  battles  as  I  war  in.  Ye  jest 
shoot,  an'  if  you  see  a  man  fall,  ye  don't  know  who  did  it. 
Only  one  man,  an'  my  Gawd !  I  haint  forgot  it,  an'  never 
will." 

Bud's  teeth  clicked  together  and  his  lips  bulged  out 
as  the  recollection  of  the  thing  tightened  his  heart 
muscles,  sending  a  pain  into  his  throat.  After  a  moment 
he  went  on,  huskily. 


116  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Feller  war  a  captain.  He  war  shot  off  his  horse  in 
a  surprise  attack  by  us.  His  men  scattered  an'  our 
fellers  took  arter  'em.  I  came  up  agin  the  man,  an'  I  see 
him  tryin'  to  git  his  pistol  out  with  his  left  hand.  I 
reckoned  his  right  war  broken.  Speared  him  right  thar 
with  my  bay 'net  an'  run  on  arter  the  others.  Wen  we 
got  orders  to  retreat  an'  came  back  over  the  hill,  I  went 
to  the  feller  an'  see  he  war  dead.  He  had  somethin'  in 
his  hand  agin  his  lips  w'ich  I  took  to  look  at,  an'  so  help 
me  Gawd,  Luke,  it  war  a  pictur'  o'  a  woman  an'  five 
children.  On  the  back  side  war  writ,  "Dear  Daddy,  we 
are  all  prayin'  you'll  soon  come  back  safe.'  I  see  the 
name  o'  the  feller  w'at  ha'  took  the  pictur'  an'  the  town 
war  right  then  in  persession  o'  our  regiment.  First 
chance  I  got  to  git  to  headquarters  I  hunted  up  the 
pictur'  shop,  an'  found  it  war  a  girl.  I  ha'  show'd  her 
the  pictur',  an'  she  asked  how  did  I  come  by  it.  'Found 
it  w'ere  the  feller  dropped  it/  sez  I.  She  told  me  the 
captain's  name  an'  show'd  me  w'ere  they  lived.  'Take 
it  to  her/  I  sez,  'an'  tell  her  a  feller  ha'  murdered  him 
an'  ha'  made  her  a  widder  an'  her  children  orphuns.  An' 
tell  her/  sez  I,  'if  Gawd  gives  me  a  chance  to  git  back 
to  honest  work  once  again  she'll  hear  from  me/  sez  I. 
Wall,  Luke,  ye  know  now  why  I  come  to  sell  my  ranch 
soon's  I  got  back  to  the  Valley,  arter  I  got  out  o'  the 
horspital.  I  ha'  sent  the  money  to  that  widder,  an'  1 
ha'  writ  an'  sez,  'This  here  money  haint  nothin'  to  w'at  a 
husband  an'  father  be/  sez  I,  'but  if  they  don't  hang  me 
fer  being'  a  hero  like  they  orter  do,  I'll  do  somethin' 
right  smart  fer  them  kids/  sez  I.  I  haint  a  tellin'  ye 
w'at  I  ha'  done,  Luke,  but,  by  Gawd,  them  kids  air  w'at 
I'm  livin'  fer,  rest  o'  my  days.  W'enever  I  git  to  seein' 
that  feller  a  lyin'  thar  with  that  pictur'  agin  his  lips, 


IF  HANK  HAD  BEEN  LINCOLN  117 

I  gits  together  w'at  money  I  got,  an'  it  goes  to  Tennessee. 
One  war  's  'nough  fer  me,  Luke,  long's  I  live,  damn  my 
skin  if  it  haint!" 

Bud  turned  on  his  heel,  headed  for  the  door  and  went 
out,  slamming  it  behind  him. 

"W'at  ye  sayin',  Hank?  Guess  w'at  we  need,  now, 
more  'n  anythink  else,  air  a  man  bigger  'n  Lincoln  war." 

"Lincoln  war  the  greatest  president  we  ha*  had  up 
to  now,  Luke.  Thar'll  be  monuments  built  all  over  the 
states  fer  him.  School  children  '11  be  tolt  w'at  a  great 
man  he  war,  an'  ev'ry  year  they'll  celebrate  his  birthday, 
same's  they  do  fer  Washington's.  An'  nobody  '11  say 
the  war  needn't  'a  been." 

"Laury  sez  as  how  Washington  war  owner  o'  a  lot  o* 
nigger  slaves,"  said  Luke.  "She  ha'  read  it  in  a  book." 

"So  I  heerd  tell,  myself,"  said  Hank. 

"Wall,  Hank,  it  be  a  queer  world,"  said  Luke,  getting 
to  his  feet  and  testing  his  leg  before  risking  his  weight 
on  it.  "My  noshun  be,  the  fellers  w'at'll  cheer  loudest  at 
them  celebrashuns,  won't  be  the  fellers  w'at  air  earnin' 
their  livin'  by  the  sweat  o'  their  brow,  an'  afeard  o'  the 
wolf  a  comin'  to  the  door." 

Hank  was  looking,  meditatively,  toward  the  hills. 

"Like's  not,"  he  said,  presently,  but  Luke  had  limped 
out  of  the  shop. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
"JEHOSOPHAT  \" 

About  four  miles  north  from  Old  Town  was  a  section 
or  more  of  what  was  known  as  "scab  land."  Once,  some 
roaming  rancher  had  built  there  a  log  house,  presumably 
for  shelter  from  the  sand  storms,  while  feeding  his  cattle 
over  the  range.  The  land  was  worthless,  as  there  was 
not  enough  sagebrush  to  coax  the  bunch  grass  out  and 
shelter  it. 

This  land  lay  in  a  direct  line  from  the  North  to  the 
South  Gaps,  in  the  path  of  every  storm  that  swept  the 
Valley.  At  some  earlier  day  the  sagebrush  had  been 
grubbed  away,  in  front  of  the  cabin,  and  the  whirling 
winds  had  scooped  out  the  light  soil,  leaving  a  large  hole. 

The  hut  had  served  as  a  temporary  retreat  for  cow- 
boys and  Indians.  Now  and  then,  some  one  would 
take  a  hammer  and  a  few  nails,  fix  up  the  door  or  cover 
the  window.  But  no  one  had  seen  enough  value  in  the 
land  to  reclaim  it. 

One  day  in  the  early  autumn  Nancy  Swallow  and 
Laura  Waters  were  out  for  a  morning  ride.  Nancy  had 
chosen  this  fresh  ranch  girl  from  among  them  all,  partly 
perhaps,  because  Laura  touched  the  chords  of  her  own 


"JEHOSOPHAT  i"  119 

early  life,  and  soothed  the  nature-spirit,  within.  And 
Laura,  flattered  at  first  that  she  might  be  Nancy's  com- 
panion and  friend,  had  grown  to  love  her  more  dearly 
than  she  had  ever  loved  her  own  sisters. 

"She's  so  sweet,  I  sometimes  feel  almost  I  c'ud  jest 
eat  her!"  she  had  exclaimed,  one  day,  to  Mrs.  Kimball; 
and  that  good  woman,  carrying  the  word  to  Nancy,  saw  a 
spark  kindle  in  the  black  eyes.  And  from  that  time  there 
had  been  a  warmer  pressure  in  the  handclasps  of  these 
young  women. 

Today,  as  they  rode  toward  the  log  hut,  they  saw 
smoke  rising  through  a  hole  in  the  roof.  They  had  often 
passed  the  place,  but  never  had  been  able  to  get  their 
ponies  near  the  door,  owing  to  the  pit,  dug  out  by  the 
wind.  This  morning,  they  saw  the  big  hole  had  been 
filled  up. 

Nancy  determined  to  see  who  was  occupying  the 
cabin.  As  she  neared  the  door,  her  pony  sank  to  his 
knees  in  the  fluffy  sand.  She  got  him  to  firmer  ground 
and  sprang  from  his  back,  just  as  the  door  opened,  and  a 
big  face,  behind  a  clump  of  red  whiskers,  peered  out. 

It  was  Crawley. 

"Howdy,  Mis'  Swallow;  howdy,"  he  said,  coming 
outside.  "Surprised  to  see  me  here,  now  be  n't  ye? — as 
the  'ighwayman  said,  onct." 

"What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  here,  Mr.  Crawley?" 

"Humsteddin',  Mis'  Swallow;  humsteddin'." 

"What  a  lot  of  work  it  must  have  been,  to  fill  in  that 
big  hole,"  said  Nancy,  pointing  to  where  the  great  pit 
had  been. 

Crawley  stood,  in  amazement,  staring  at  the  spot. 

"Jee-'os-aphat !"  he  exclaimed,  at  last.    "That  'ole  war 


120  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

thar  last  night,  sure's  I'm  a  foot  'igh!  W'os'  a  done  it, 
d'ye  think,  Mis'  Swallow?" 

"The  wind,  prob'ly,"  Laura  volunteered.  The  wind 
dug  it  out,  afore." 

"Wall,  it's  beatin'  o'  me,  as  the  carpet  said  to  the 
split  o'  leather;  but  I  be  n't  one  as  will  complain.  It'll 
save  a  heap  o'  work,  certain  sure.  It  war  a  bit  blowy 
last  night,  fer  a  fact." 

"But,  Mr.  Crawley,"  said  Laura,  "whoever  got  ye  to 
take  up  a  homestead  on  this  old  stun  patch?  It'll  never 
be  worth  waterin'."  Luke  Waters'  daughter  knew  as 
much  about  such  matters  as  any  man  in  the  Valley. 

"Wall,  it's  a  long  story,  as  the  tar  said  to  the  mid- 
shipman, and  is  one  as  I'll  tell  ye  sometime;  but  'ere  I 
be,  an' — Jee-'os-aphat !" 

Crawley  had  walked  to  the  corner  of  the  hut  to  call 
their  attention  to  a  large  area,  in  the  rear,  from  which  he 
had  cleared  the  sagebrush.  Lo,  where,  the  night  before, 
he  had  surveyed  with  pride  more  than  five  acres  of  level, 
clean  land,  there  was  now  a  hole  which  seemed  to  him 
large  enough  to  hold  half  the  village  of  Old  Town. 

The  strong,  whirling  wind,  peculiar  to  West  Wash- 
ington, had  brought  about  a  new  topographical  condition 
to  his  ranch.  It  had  scooped  out  the  whole  five  acres  of 
sand  and  light,  lava  ash,  filled  up  the  hole  in  front  of 
his  cabin,  and  carried  the  remainder  to  a  remote  part  of 
the  section,  piling  up  a  row  of  gigantic  hammocks. 

"Jee-hosaphat !"  Crawley  repeated,  with  greater  em- 
phasis, his  bushy  hair  standing  up,  and  his  red  whiskers 
bristling  straight  out. 

"You  orter  waited  for  the  water,  Mr.  Crawley,"  said 
Laura,  sympathetically.  "The  wind  allwus  does  that, 


"JEHOSOPHAT !"  121 

when  the  sagebrush  is  grubbed  off,  an'  no  water  to  wet  it 
down." 

"Jeehosa-phat  ?"  was  all  Crawley  could  answer. 

Nancy  toed  a  stirrup,  and  sprang  into  her  saddle. 

"Good-bye,"  Mr.  Crawley,"  she  called  back  to  him; 
but  he  had  disappeared  behind  the  cabin. 

As  they  rode  away,  they  met  a  man  on  a  black  stallion, 
who  passed  them,  giving  Laura  a  slight  nod. 

"Who  is  he?"  Nancy  asked. 

"You've  seen  him?"  said  Laura. 

"No,  never,  Laura,  but  I  remember  the  horse.  I  never 
see  a  man,  when  I  can  look  at  a  beautiful  horse." 

"I  guess  there  aint  no  handsomer  man  on  this  range, 
or  any  other,  fur  as  that  goes,"  said  Laura. 

Billy  Ki-Ki's  powerful  frame,  thick  hair,  and  smooth, 
well  chiselled  face,  made  him  a  striking  figure,  even 
among  the  unusual  men  of  the  plains. 

This  morning,  he  rode  up  to  where  the  new  rancher 
was  standing,  dejectedly,  and,  leaning  over  his  saddle,  he 
tapped  the  ground  with  his  quirt. 

Crawley  looked  up,  still  dazed. 

"Ye'll  be  wantin'  some  calves,  I'm  thinkin',  Crawley, 
and  I've  got  some  mighty  fine  ones  I  can  let  ye  have  on 
time." 

"On  time,  is  it?"  said  Crawley,  staring  at  the  ranger. 
"I'll  have  a  'ell  of  a  time  fillin'  hup  that  bloomin'  'ole, 
I'm  thinkinV 

Billy  grinned. 

"Wait  for  the  wind,  Crawley,  wait  for  the  wind." 

"An'  then  w'at?" 

"Well,  then  ye  can  wait  for  the  water.  Meantime, 
man,  don't  grub  off  any  more  sagebrush ;  there  ain't  any 


122  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

too  much  bunch  grass  here,  now,  an'  nothin'  else  will 
grow.  What  d'ye  say  to  some  calves?" 

"Hit's  about  the  same  w'ether  I  'ave  calves  or  w'ether 
I  don't,  I  s'pose.  Ye'll  keep  'em  till  I  want  'em,  won't 
ye?  an'  it'll  be  a  start.  Wen  '11  I  have  to  pay  for  the 
bloomin'  critturs?" 

"Take  yer  time,  Crawley;  take  yer  time.  "What's 
more,  if  ye  want  to  water  this  God-forsaken  spot,  now  ye 
got  it,  why,  mebbe  I  can  help  ye.  But  it'll  take  a  heap 
o'  work,  man,  and  a  mint  o'  money ;  but  I  like  your  nerve, 
man,  and  I'll  stake  ye,  Crawley." 

"Thankee,  Billy,  thankee.  Don't  know  as  I  wants  ye 
to.  The  bloomin'  ranch  can  'owl,  fur's  I  care.  I'm 
through  with  grubbin';  but  I'll  be  beggered  if  I  don't 
keep  'er.  Summat  '11  turn  up,  mebbe.  D;amme,  I'll 
keep  'er." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  o'  THE  CHURCHES" 

The  next  day,  Nancy  stopped  in  at  the  shoemaker's, 

"I've  got  a  little  job  for  you,  Mr.  Evans,"  she  said, 
slipping  off  a  shoe.  "And  I've  got  a  lot  to  talk  with  you 
about,  so  I  came  early." 

"That's  right,  that's  right,  Mis'  Swallow,"  said  Hank. 
"Ye  should  ha'  come  afore  this,  fer  this  c'ud  'a  been  fixed 
in  a  few  minutes  w'en  I  saw  ye  last,  an'  now  it'll  take 
most  the  forenoon.  Ye  don't  sing  fer  us  any  more  at 
meetin'.  Ain't  ye  goin'  to?  Or  be  ye  through  with  Old 
Town  religion?" 

"No,  Mr.  Evans,  it  wasn't  that.  Only,  Martha  Chan- 
ning  thought  my  songs  weren't  Christian,  and  Martha's 
Dick's  sister,  you  know." 

"I  reckoned  about  sech  war  the  case.  Parson  ha' 
tuk  it  to  heart  like,  an'  there  be'nt  any  fire  in  his  talk 
since  ye  don't  come." 

"Mr.  Evans,  I  don't  think  I  ever  want  to  be  a  Christian 
like  Martha  Channing,  or  Janet  Raines.  Dick  says  I 
am  his  little  pagan  wife,  and  that's  what  I  am  always 
going  to  be." 

"Wall,"  said  Hank,  waxing  a  long  thread,  industri- 
ously, while  his  face  broadened  into  a  grin,  "there  be 
pagans  an'  heathens,  which  the  churches  send  mission- 


124  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

aries  to,  w'ich  had  better  send  missionaries  to  the 
churches.  I'm  agin  it,  fer  ye  can't  make  bull  beef  out*n 
sole  leather,  much  as  ye  may  think  ye  got  t'other  for  sich, 
as  Lanky  says,  who's  been  to  the  rest'rants  in  Frisco." 

"Is  it  a  sin  to  go  fishing  on  Sunday,  Mr.  Evans?" 

'Wall,  now,  Mis'  Swallow,  I  reckon  sin  is  mostly  a 
pint  o'  view  o'  some  feller  who  aint  doin'  that  thing,  but 
prob'ly  doin'  suthin'  worse.  'Pears  to  me  I  ha'  read 
somew'ere  in  the  Bible  that  the  Sabbath  Day  war  made 
fer  man,  'stead  o'  man  bein'  made  to  fit  the  Sabbath." 

"Miss  Slaterback,  who  lives  next  to  Heath's,  is  a 
Mormon,  Dick  says;  and  she  won't  work  on  Saturday, 
but  she  always  does  her  washing  on  Sunday.  Dick  says 
she  is  a  Mormon  because  she  believes  a  man  should  have 
seven  wives,  according  to  the  Bible,  and  that  would  give 
her  a  chance.  Martha  Channing  says  she  's  a  wicked 
woman,  for  working  on  the  Sabbath.  I  don't  see  why  it 
should  make  any  difference,  do  you? 

"My  concepshun  is  that  arter  a  man  or  a  woman  ha* 
worked  six  days,  it  air  time  to  rest  up  fer  a  day — no 
matter  if  it  be  Saturday,  or  Sunday,  or  Monday.  I  heard 
a  feller  w'at  know'd  a  lot  o'  Bible  language,  say,  onct, 
that  the  big  Jew  feller  they  call  Moses,  ha'  changed 
Sunday  to  Saturday,  arter  they  got  away  from  them 
Egypshun  brickmakers,  w'at  made  'em  make  bricks  with- 
out straw.  He  show'd  as  how  Moses  ha'  done  it  out  o' 
spite.  It  wan't  no  religious  day,  then — jest  a  national 
holiday,  fer  everybody  to  rest.  Moses  ha*  picked  out 
Saturday  fer  th'  reason,  so  he  told  'em,  the  Lord  ha' 
rested  arter  He  ha'  worked  six  days  to  make  the  airth. 
But  this  feller  said  it  wan't  no  sech  thing,  as  nobody  ha' 
know'd  anythink  'bout  the  days  o'  the  week  till  millions 
o'  years  arterward ;  an'  then  some  Jew  feller  ha'  made  a 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     125 

calendar.  He  said  the  day  war  set  fer  a  political  holiday 
till  the  fellers  w'at  tuk  up  the  church  c'lecshuns  in  the 
big  temple,  ha'  thought  they  c'ud  git  more  money  if  they 
made  it  a  sin  to  do  anythink  but  go  to  church  on 
Sunday." 

"I  think  he  was  right,"  said  Nancy,  convinced  with- 
out understanding  it  very  well.  "There  should  be  one 
day  in  a  week,  when  everyone,  who  has  to  work  all  the 
other  days,  can  enjoy  life  just  as  they  wish — so  long  as 
they  don't  interfere  with  those  who  want  to  go  to 
church." 

"That's  my  concepshun,  Mis'  Swallow.  I  war  brought 
up  to  respect  Sunday,  like  it  war  the  Lord,  Hisself,  an' 
I  never  had  no  time,  other  days,  to  play  ball,  or  go  fishin', 
or  skatin'.  Someday  these  fellers  w'at  writ  the  'don't  do 
its,'  o'  the  churches,  will  find  they  got  to  'judicate  a  lot 
o'  their  foolishness,  w'en  they  meet  the  Lord  face  to 
face." 

"Mr.  Channing  says  you  know  a  lot  about  the  Bible, 
and  what  it  says ;  and  I  came  over,  this  morning,  to  have 
you  tell  me  everything  that  it  says.  Will  you,  please?" 

"  Lor'  bless  ye !"  said  Hank,  dropping  the  shoe.  "Ye 
never  read  it?" 

Nancy  shook  her  head. 

"Haveyo'u?" 

"Twice  or  thrisct — clear  through,  we'n  I  war  a 
youngster.  Mother  war  greatly  religious,  an'  she  ha' 
brought  me  up  orthodox  like,  till  the  devil  tuk  'er." 

"The  devil  took  her!"  exclaimed  Nancy.  "You  mean 
the  Lord,  don't  you  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hank,  solemnly,  "I  reckerlect  as  how 
mother  allus  said  the  Lord  war  good  an'  merciful,  an' 
never  would  harm  nobody.  An'  jest  afore  she  war  tuk 


126  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

down — father  he  had  been  tuk  and  died.  It  war  small- 
pox, Mis'  Swallow.  Wall,  arter  father  war  dead  an'  gone, 
an'  the  police  ha'  tuk  off  their  regulashuns  on  the  house, 
mother  she  ha'  got  out  'er  Bible,  an*  ha'  read  'bout  Job, 
an'  how  he  war  tuk  down  wi'  biles  an'  sech,  an'  kep' 
sayin'  as  he  did :  'The  Lord  ha*  done  it !  The  Lord  ha* 
done  it!'  Then  some  feller  come  along  w'at  know'd 
all  about  the  Lord  an'  how  He  ha'  made  the  world,  anf 
he  told  Job  he  war  a  fool.  Sez,  the  feller :  'Job/  he  sez, 
'the  Lord  ha'  made  the  world  an'  everythink  good  in  it/ 
he  sez,  'an',  w'en  ye  see  things  goin'  wrong,  it's  Satan 
as  does  it,'  he  sez.  'It  war  Satan  w'at  made  ye  sick,  Job/ 
sez  the  feller,  'an'  w'en  ye  stop  blamin'  the  Lord  fer  it, 
ye'll  git  well/  he  sez." 

"And  did  he  get  well?" 

"Job  did,  an'  mother  she  didn't;  an'  thar's  w'ere  my 
interpretashun  ends.  Sho!  Mebbe  she  didn't  git  no 
chance,  fer  a  day  or  so  arter  she  ha'  read  this  to  me,  an' 
she  ha'  told  me  never  to  blame  the  Lord  fer  nothink  as 
war  harmful,  the  perlice  ha'  come  an'  tuk  'er  off  to  the 
waccination  'orspital,  an'  next  I  heard  she  war  dead  an* 
Alongside  o'  father."  Hank  looked  off  to  the  Ahtanum 
hills,  while  he  listlessly  tapped  his  leather-aproned  knee 
with  his  awl. 

"Who  was  Job?" 

"Job  war  a  ambitious  feller,  good  an'  pious-like,  but 
he  had  a  wife  w'at  war  impious  as  hell — beggin'  yure 
pardon,  Mis'  Swallow." 

"That's  alright,  Mr.  Evans.  It  means  a  whole  lot 
you  can't  say  any  other  way.  Go  on,  please." 

"Wall,  Job's  wife  kep'  tryin'  to  git  the  old  man  to 
quit  prayin'  an'  exhortin*  on  the  Lord;  but  Job,  he 
stuck,  like  a  dorg  to  a  root.  Then  she  got  the  children 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     127 

to  make  sport  o'  their  dad,  an'  sech,  so  he  tips  an*  gives 
'em.  all  a  share  o'  his  property,  till  he  hadn't  more'n  a 
rabbit,  as  Jim  Crawley  sez,  an'  the  young  Jobs  went  off 
to  hoe  their  own  rows." 

"That  was  good  of  him,"  said  Nancy. 

"Wall,  they  got  to  runnin'  things  purty  lively,  a 
drinkin'  an'  dancin'  an'  carousin'  an'  sech,  till  everybody 
fer  miles  'round  used  to  hear  on  'em,  an'  used  to  come 
to  sample  their  wines  an'  to  eat  o'  the  bread  o'  the 
world.  One  day  Job's  wife  went  to  visit  the  boys  an* 
jine  in  their  sport,  an'  they  ha'  gi'n  her  a  great  jamberee." 

"Did  Mrs.  Job  drink  wine  and  get  drunk?" 

"Don't  know  'bout  her.  Guess  it  don't  say.  But 
w'en  the  boys  war  drunk,  a  lot  o'  thieves  come  an* 
stole  all  their  cattle  an'  sheep.  W'en  they  ha'  come  to, 
they  hadn't  more'n  their  old  dad;  not  a  red  cent." 

"Nor  ambition,"  she  suggested. 

"Mebbe  not,"  said  Hank.  "Wall,  they  concluded  to 
go  back  to  Job,  an'  fall  on  his  neck,  so  to  say,  an'  git 
w'at  he  'ad  left.  Job's  wife  knew  better,  an'  tried  to 
persuade  'em  not  to  go;  but  they  went,  an*  she  slid  off 
to  visit  some  other  relashuns  o'  hern,  w'at  war  likewise 
havin'  good  times  an'  wines  an1  sech.  Wall,  some 
brigands,  or  other,  falls  on  the  necks  o'  Job's  sons 
afore  they  got  another  w'ack  at  the  old  dad;  an*  thar 
warn't  anythink  left  o'  them  fellers  to  tell  w'at  happened 
to  'em." 

"Kill  them  all?" 

Hank  nodded. 

"Dead'rn  a  door  nail,"  he  said. 

"And  did  Mrs.  Job  go  back  to  Mr.  Job?" 

"Yes,  she  went  home  sometime  arterward,  an'  found 
Job  ha'  tuk  sick  with  a  lot  o'  biles,  an'  war  rootin*  round 


128  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

in  sackcloth  an'  ashes,  sayin'  'Oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!  oh, 
Lord!'  'Wat's  up?'  says  Mrs.  Job.  'Biles/  sez  Job. 
'The  Lord  ha'  afflicted  me/  he  sez.  'I  told  ye  so!'  sez 
the  missus.  'W'ere's  the  children?'  Job  arsked.  'Dead/ 
she  sez.  'Oh,  Lord ;  oh,  Lord !  oh,  Lord !'  sez  Job.  'Air 
ye  ready  to  quit?'  she  arsks.  But  Job,  he  sticks  to  the 
Lord,  an'  the  old  woman  goes  kitin'  back  to  her  relashuns 
an'  sech.  Then  the  good  feller  comes  along,  an'  finds 
Job  rootin'  an'  blamin'  the  Lord,  an'  he  tells  Job  to 
stop  accusin'  the  Lord,  an'  blame  the  hull  business  on 
the  devil." 

"And  then  what?"  she  asked,  after  waiting  for  Hank 
to  find  the  tool  he  was  searching  for. 

"Arter  this  good  feller,  w'at  know'd  everythink,  ha' 
talked  awhile  to  Job,  an'  told  him  how  the  Lord  ha' 
planned  the  world,  an'  ha'  hung  it  in  the  sky,  an'  sech, 
he  gits  Job  to  b'lieve  he  war  wrong,  arter  all,  an'  Job 
he  gits  down  in  the  sackcloth  an'  ashes  agin,  an'  sez: 
'Oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!  oh,  Lord!  I  ha'  been  mighty 
wicked.'  An'  he  arsks  the  Lord  to  forgive  him,  an'  take 
away  his  biles,  w'ich  the  Lord  did  immegitly,  an'  give 
the  old  man  another  wife  w'at  stayed  home ;  an'  Job  had 
a  lot  more  sons  and  daughters,  an'  more  property  'n 
ever." 

"Is  that  in  the  Bible,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Thar's  w'ere  I  read  it,  Mis'  Swallow,  w'en  I  war 
a  youngster,  an'  I  guess  it  be  thar  now." 

"Do  you  believe  it's  true?" 

Hank  let  his  hammer  fall  to  the  floor,  and  stared 
at  her  in  surprise. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  "More'n  that  happens,  some- 
w'ere  every  day." 

"That  the  Lord  makes  boils  go  away  from  people?" 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     129 

"Wall,  no;  not  exactly,"  said  Hank.  "The  doctors 
make  'em  well,  an'  then  they  git  new  wives,  or  them 
as  needs  'em  does;  an'  they  make  a  lot  more  money — 
some  on'em,  if  they  ain't  lost  ambition." 

"So  you  don't  believe  it  all?"  Nancy  insisted. 

"O'  course  I  do!"  said  Hank,  with  emphasis,  as  he 
started  again  to  work  industriously  on  the  shoe. 

"Did  the  Lord  give  the  doctors  the  same  power  as 
He  had,  to  make  sick  people  well  ?"  she  questioned,  after 
a  pause. 

"I  'spose  He  did,"  said  Hank. 

"But  why  do  people  die,  then,  when  they  have 
doctors  ?" 

"Wall,  it  be  nip  an'  tuck,  nigh  'bout,"  said  Hank,  dryly. 
"If  ye  gits  well,  he  war  a  good  doctor ;  an'  if  ye  die,  the 
Lord  hadn't  give  him  enough  wisdom." 

"Well,  he's  a  queer  Lord,  don't  you  think,  Mr. 
Evans?" 

"Lor'  bless  ye,  Mis'  Swallow !  He  orter  know  I  He 
orter  know!" 

Nancy  sat,  quiet,  for  some  moments  watching  Hank 
pull  the  thread  back  and  forth  through  the  leather.  She 
was  wondering  about  him,  why  he  was  just  Hank  Evans, 
the  cobbler,  when  he  knew  so  much,  and  knew  it  in  a 
better  way  than  the  minister  did,  and  told  it  so  much 
more  entertainingly.  Perhaps  this  great  Purpose  required 
that  out  of  the  mouths  of  cobblers  and  of  ranchers  and 
cowboys,  and  from  Nick  Maloney's  funny  thin  lips,  and 
from  Jim  Crawley's  red-whiskered  mouth,  something 
would  come  to  help  solve  this  great  mysterious  puzzle — 
Life. 

"Ye  be  some  singer,  Mis'  Swallow,"  said  Hank  pres- 
ently. 'Ye  war  gittin'  holt  o'  these  no  account  cowboys 


130  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

who  ha'  spent  a  deal  o'  time  afore,  an'  most  o'  their 
money,  at  Skinners.  I  reckon  as  how  Dink  Skinner  war 
a  wishin'  ye  never  come  to  Old  Town." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not !"  Nancy  exclaimed,  "I  wouldn't  want 
anyone  to  feel  that  way  about  me." 

"Shucks!"  said  Hank,  "He  ha'  sent  more  men  to  the 
devil  than  anythink  else,  hereabouts." 

"Who  was  the  devil?"  Nancy  asked. 

"Ye  never  heerd  'bout  the  devil?"  Hank  paused  in 
his  work  to  look  at  her.  He  wasn't  sure  she  was  in 
earnest. 

"Oh,  yes ;  I've  heard  people  call  each  other  devils.  I 
heard  a  preacher  say,  once,  the  devil  is  a  big  snake.  But 
I  suppose  it  means  a  bad  man — doesn't  it,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  some  fellers  git  nigh  on  to  be  meaner'n  all 
git  out — an'  women,  too,  fur's  that  be.  But  the  devil, 
himself,  air  the  king  pin  fer  cussedness,  bein's  how  he 
war  once  an  angel  o'  glory,  but  war  kicked  out  o'  heaven, 
'cause  he  war  sot  on  bein'  the  hull  thing." 

"Who  kicked  him  out,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  I  can't  say  jest  who  did  it,  but  the  Bible  sez 
as  how  he  war  rebellious  like,  and  wanted  to  run  things 
his  own  way;  an'  the  Lord  ha'  said:  'Satan,'  sez  he,  *ye 
better  vamoose  t'  hell  w'er  ye  belong,'  he  sez,  I  expect, 
though  it  don't  say  it  jest  them  words.  Ye  see,  Mis' 
Swallow,  the  devil  war  onct  a  good  angel,  an'  had  a 
glorified  body,  an'  war  in  heaven;  but  w'en  he  war 
thrown  out,  his  body  war  taken  away,  an'  he  is  jest  a 
spirit  w'at  ye  can't  see,  like  all  bad  spirits,  w'at  air  called, 
devils." 

"Where  do  all  the  other  devils  come  from,  Mr.  Evans? 
There  must  be  a  lot  of  them  to  make  so  much  trouble 
in  the  world,"  Nancy  conjectured. 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     131 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  my  concepshun  be  this:  This 
airth  air  to  be  made  all  over  agin  some  day,  the  Bible 
sez.  An'  it  sez  it  ha'  been  made  over  a  lot  o'  times 
already.  I  reckon  thar's  allus  a  Judgment  Day  fer  each 
time,  an'  a  Lord  Jesus,  too,  prob'ly.  O'  course  them  w'at 
haint  wanted  glorified  bodies,  'count  o'  not  b'lievin'  in 
heaven  an'  sech,  w'en  th?y  ha'  lived  here,  didn't  git  none. 
Soon's  a  new  airth  war  made,  they  ha'  come  back  here 
in  spirits,  'thout  bodies,  an'  the  Lord  ha'  let  'em  stay 
here,  seein'  as  they  war  sot  on  it,  an'  w'udn't  go  to 
heaven  w'en  they  war  give  the  chanct." 

"Can't  they  see  anything?" 

"Wall,  I  reckon  so,"  said  Hank.  "But  they  never  ha' 
lived  in  this  world,  and  the  air  w'at  we  breathe,  and 
w'ich  makes  our  bodies,  ain't  the  kind  w'at  made  them ; 
an'  them  as  never  ha'  been  born  in  this  atmosphere  can't 
grow  bodies  like  they  had  afore." 

"Always  like  that — must  they  never  have  bodies 
again  ?" 

"Wall,  they  air  to  git  a  chance,  I  reckon,  w'en  the 
Judgment  Day  comes  agin — that  is,  if  they  git  real  sorry 
fer  their  cussedness,  an'  arsk  the  Lord  fer  glory.  My 
concepshun  air,  the  Lord  ha'  give  us  the  right  to  choose 
w'ether  we  go  to  heaven  or  t'hell.  Them  as  don't  believe 
in  heaven  or  glory,  won't  arsk  fer  it;  an'  God,  o'  course, 
can't  give  'em  anythink  they  don't  arsk  fer.  That's  His 
rule." 

"My!"  said  Nancy.  "It  must  be  awful  to  have  no 
body  to  go  around  in." 

"Sho!"  said  Hank.  "They  don't  lack  fer  bodies. 
They  jest  takes  persession  o'  them  feller's  bodies  w'at 
air  full  o'  superstishun.  Ye  see,  Mis'  Swallow,  they 
air  diffrent  kind  o'  flesh  from  w'at  the  devils  ha'  been 


132  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

'customed  to,  an'  the  fellers  git  sick,  an'  sech,  and  it  ha* 
been  said  they  air  unclean  spirits.  Ye  can't  see  'em  till 
they  gits  to  runnin'  a  po'r  feller  in  a  diff'rent  way  from 
w'at  he  wants  to  go.  An'  he  up  and  does  somethin'  he 
haint  awanted  to  do." 

"Makes  them  steal,  or  kill  somebody?" 

"Yas,  the  po'r  feller,  w'at  the  devils  got  into,  he 
gits  the  punishment  w'at  the  devils  ought  to  git.  An'  I 
reckon  the  devils  'a  had  many  a  laugh  at  the  jedge  an' 
jury  fer  hangin'  the  feller." 

"There  should  be  some  way  to  warn  people  about  it, 
don't  you  think,  Mr.  Evans?"  It  was  getting  to  be  a 
real  problem  with  Nancy. 

"Sho!  Wen  a  feller — or  a  woman,  too,  fur's  that 
be — gits  to  b'lievin'  in  superstishun,  an'  that  they  can 
see  the  spirits  o'  their  pa  an'  ma  arter  they  ha'  died,  an' 
sech  nonsense — w'ich  I  ha'  read  in  the  Bible  they  haint 
a  goin'  to  see  till  the  Lord  God,  Hisself,  comes  an'  brings 
'em  with  Him — 'taint  no  job  a  tall  fer  these  spirits  o' 
the  'pre-Adamite  fellers,'  as  the  parson  calls  'em,  to 
git  in  some  woman  an'  make  her  talk  jest  like  the  dead 
pa  or  ma,  or  granmother,  an'  sech,  o'  the  fellers  w'at 
air  ready  to  b'lieve  anythink  that  haint  true." 

"My !"  said  Nancy.  "They  are  real  dangerous  to  have 
'round." 

Hank  grinned. 

"Shucks!"  said  he.  "Nobody  don't  b'lieve  in  devils 
an'  sech,  now-a-days,  an'  consequent  they  jest  hang 
round  a  feller's  fam'ly  fer  fifty  or  a  hundred  years — 'to 
the  third  an'  fourth  genershun  o'  them  as  don't  believe', 
the  Bible  sez,  an'  they  can  git  to  perdooce  exact  voice  o' 
any  one  o'  the  fam'ly  w'at  ha'  died.  An'  they  can  tell 
'em  fam'ly  secrets  w'at  no  one  else  knowed.  They  can 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     133 

make  out  as  how  they  air  tellin'  ye  a  lot  'bout  heaven 
an'  sech,  w'at  a  superstishus  feller  '11  b'lieve,  not  knowin' 
these  air  jest  spirits  o'  some  onery  cuss  who  ha'  lived 
on  this  airth  a  millyun  years  ago,  an'  haint  never  been 
no  nearer  heaven  than  I  be,  this  minnit." 

"Where  did  you  find  out  about  all  this,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"The  'postle,  Jude,  ha'  writ  in  the  Bible  'bout  these 
cusses  w'ich,  he  sez,  lost  their  fust  bodies  an'  air  to  be 
kept  in  darkness,  without  right  to  have  'nother  body 
till  the  Judgment  Day.  The  parson  war  sayin'  spell  back 
as  how  'cordin'  to  the  'riginal  words  o'  the  Greek,  the 
Lord  Jesus  didn't  say  as  the  wicked  war  to  go  'way  fer 
punishment  ferever,  but  that  they  air  to  go  'way  to  be 
restrained  from  havin'  bodies  fer  the  hull  time  till  the 
Judgment  Day.  'Nother  place  it  sez  them  that  air  goin' 
to  b'lieve  an'  do  right  fer's  they  can,  air  to  come  back 
with  God,  Hisself,  at  same  time  Abraham  an'  Jacob  an' 
Adam  come.  Way  I  see  it,  if  the  good  an'  the  wicked 
air  both  got  to  go  'way  w'en  their  spirits  quit  their 
bodies,  then  the  only  spirits  w'at  air  here  now  be  them 
as  warn't  give  new  bodies  at  last  Judgment  Day." 

"Where  is  hell,  Mr.  Evans?"  she  asked. 

"Wall,  good  many  preachers  have  diff'rent  ideas. 
The  hell  doctrin's  o'  the  churches  tell  as  how  it's  a  place 
w'ere  a  man  w'at's  bad  goes  w'en  he  dies;  an'  he  burns 
up  fer  ever*  an  ever.  My  concepshun  is  that  hell  ain't 
no  place  at  all — jest  a  condition  w'at  a  sinner's  spirit 
gits  into  arter  his  body  is  gone."  * 

"But  the  devil  makes  them  bad,  doesn't  he?" 

*Hank's  "concepshun"  now  appears  to  be  supported  by  Dr.  Robert 
Young,  the  world's  best  authority  on  ancient  meanings  of  Biblical  words, 
who  tells  us  the  original  meaning  of  Sheol  was,  "an  invisible  state  of  man." 
The  Greek  equivalent,  Hades,  meant,  "an  invisible  age;"  that  is,  a  period 
of  time  when  a  man  it  in  the  invisible  state,  i.e.,  in  spirit  without  body. 


134  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Yas;  but  the  preachers  don't  take  no  account  o' 
that,"  said  Hank. 

"How  bad  must  a  man  be  to  go  to  hell,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  I  reckon  as  how  every  man's  bad — more  or 
less;  an'  women,  too — er — that  is,  most  women — pres- 
ent company's  accepted,  Mis'  Swallow." 

"Oh,  you  can  include  me,  Mr.  Evans.  I'm  the  worst 
woman  in  Old  Town,  Mrs.  Channing  thinks.  Can  women 
go  to  hell,  too?" 

"Wall,"  said  Hank,  throwing  his  hammer  in  the  box 
for  emphasis,  "I  guess  if  they  want  to  get  thar,  nothin' 
'11  stop  'em !" 

"And  where  do  good  people  go  when  they  die  ? — those 
that  don't  go  to  hell?" 

"Mis'  Swallow,  I  ha'  thought  o'  that,  myself,  many 
a  time.  I  ha'  read  in  the  Bible  thar  aint  nothin'  w'at  is 
hid  but'll  be  known  some  day.  So  ye  can  see  it'll  take 
a  hundred  millyun  years  to  learn  about  all  them  millyuns 
o'  planets  w'at  be  hid  from  us  now.  Sho!  Folks  think 
they  be  goin'  lickity  split  on  the  railroads.  But  wait  till 
we  git  to  travelin'  'mong  them  stars!  Wile  we  air  on 
this  airth,  we  air  jest  learnin'  to  creep,  not  sayin'  as 
how  ye'll  see  people  some  day  goin'  through  the  water 
an'  the  air  mor'n  a  hundred  miles  an  hour,  like  a  feller 
ha'  writ,  that  Jedge  Latimer  ha'  told  me  'bout  onct. 
But  jest  wait  till  ye  git  'mong  them  stars !  Arter  knowin' 
how  to  go  purty  fast  here  no  one  won't  be  satisfied  up 
thar  till  they  can  go  from  one  planet  to  'nother  for  an 
arternoon  visit." 

"That  will  be  going  some !"  said  Nancy  with  wide- 
open  eyes.  "It  does  seem  as  though  we  should  some 
day  know  about  all  these  things  we  wonder  about — just 
because  we  are  talking  about  them  and  wondering  about 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     135 

them.  Some  one  must  know  all  about  them;  and  if  we 
really  want  to  know,  it  seems  as  though  we  ought  to 
have  a  chance  to  learn  sometime.  But  we'd  be  as  big 
as  God,  then,  wouldn't  we?" 

"My  consepshun  air,  Mis'  Swallow,  that  God  war  onct 
only  a  man,  jest  like  any  feller — mebbe  like  Luke,  or 
Tank — or  me.  I  ha'  read  in  the  Bible  onct  w'ere  the 
Lord  ha'  said  ev'ry  man  'shall  become  perfect  like  the 
Father  in  heaven  is  perfect.'  Way  I  rigger  it  out  is,  if 
I  can  git  to  be  as  big  an'  as  perfect  as  He  be,  then  He 
war  onct  a  man  here,  w'at  had  to  git  into  glory  same 
way  as  Luke  will — or  Nick  Maloney — or  me.  But,  sho ! 
He's  been  gittin'  bigger  'n  powerfuller  ever  since,  an' 
we  ain't  got  no  chance  to  ever  catch  up  with  Him." 

"My  goodness !  Mr.  Evans,"  exclaimed  Nancy.  "You 
should  have  been  a  preacher!" 

Hank  grinned,  while  he  sharpened  his  knife  on  a 
whetstone. 

"I  never  had  a  hankerin'  to  be  bossed  by  any  church, 
Mis'  Swallow.  Them  as  do — like  the  parson,  for  one, 
who,  I  reckon,  is  better'n  most  on  'em — can't  figger  these 
things  out  fer  themselves  same  as  I  can,  or  they'd  be 
jerked  up  for  hearsay  'fore  the  bishops.  My  thought  o' 
the  Bible  is  that  them  as  want  to  know,  hones'  injun, 
w'at  is  the  truth,  can  git  a  concepshun  o'  truth  'bout 
God,  an'  'bout  heaven,  w'ether  they  can't  read,  or  nothin'. 
It's  wisdom  w'at  comes  right  out  o'  the  air  that  makes 
ye  think ;  an'  it  can  make  ye  think  things  that  be  largical 
facts,  too.  Most  th'  stuff  ye  git  from  the  preachers — 
not  sayin'  as  how  the  parson  aint  better'n  most  on  'em — 
air  w'at  some  Smart  Alec  ha'  figgered  out  wi'out  arskin' 
fer  wisdom,  fust ;  an'  if  a  feller  don't  arsk  fer  wisdom — 
fer  heavenly  wisdom,  I  mean,  Mis'  Swallow,  all  he'll  git 


136  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

is  w'at  he  gits  from  men.    That's  why  God  ha'  said,  ye 
sh'ud  pray  fer  everything  w'at  ye  can't  git  from  men." 

"I  never  prayed  in  my  life,  except  when  I  was  in 
the  convent,  and  had  to  say  a  lot  of  things  by  heart, 
with  beads.  That  isn't  asking  for  anything." 

"An'  that's  'bout  all  ye  git.  Wen  ye  pray,  ye  got 
to  say  w'at  ye  want." 

"How  are  you  to  know  which  direction  to  pray,  Mr. 
Evans?" 

"Same  direction  as  w'en  ye'd  holler  in  the  dark  fer 
help  if  a  greaser  grabbed  ye.  Ye'd  hope  your  cry  'ud 
be  heerd  by  someun'.  My  noshun  is,  the  Lord's  got 
invisible  tellygraph  wires  in  all  directions-^even  to  hell." 

"If  a  man  goes  to  hell,  Mr.  Evans,  couldn't  he  pray  to 
God  to  get  him  out?  Seems  to  me  it's  hell  where  the 
preachers  ought  to  go;  and  let  such  persons  as  Martha 
Channing  go  to  heaven." 

"Ye've  got  my  concepshun  o'  that,  Mis'  Swallow. 
Hell  will  be  needin'  more  preachers  'n  heaven.  But,  sho! 
most  on  'em  air  sot  on  playin'  a  harp  fer  ever  'n  ever." 

"Tell  me  about  some  other  queer  man,  like  Mr.  Job," 
she  urged. 

"Wall,  thar  war  Daniel,  w'at  prayed  constantly  three 
times  a  day  to  the  Lord,  an'  the  Lord  give  him  a  lot  o' 
wisdom  in  dreams.  And  he  got  so  powerful  wise  that 
them  as  didn't  git  wisdom,  consequent  o'  not  prayin', 
war  'feared  o'  Daniel.  So  they  chucked  him  among  the 
lions,  an'  the  Lord  wouldn't  let  the  critturs  eat  him  up. 
That  war  true,  for  I've  seen  men  in  lions'  cages  many 
a  time." 

"So  have  I,"  said  Nancy,  "in  San  Francisco.  I  used  to 
live  there,  you  know,  Mr.  Evans.  Dick,  my  husband, 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     137 

came   from    New    Hampshire.      Do    you    know    where 
that  is?" 

Hank  nodded. 

"It's  in  the  East,"  he  said,  "near  Noo  Yark;  an'  a 
fine  town  it  be,  I've  heard  say." 

"Dick's  father  is  a  preacher  there." 

"Do  tell!"  exclaimed  Hank,  as  though  he  hadn't 
known  it  from  the  first. 

"He  must  think  I'm  an  awful  sinner." 

"Sho,  now!  he  don't  know  it." 

"Yes,  he  does;  Martha  Channing  wrote  and  told 
them,  I  know." 

"Think  so?"  and  Hank  stared  at  her,  sympathetically. 

"Tell  me  about  some  other  men  who  had  funny  things 
happen  to  them,"  she  urged. 

"Wall,  thar  war  Jonah,  as  war  kickin'  up  a  big  wind 
on  the  oshun,  an*  the  fellers  throw'd  him  overboard,  bag 
and  baggage,  'cause  he  told  them  he  war  running  away 
from  the  Lord.  Jonah  ha'  thought  the  Lord  war  in  one 
o'  them  furren  cities  w'at  the  Bible  tells  'bout;  for  he 
ha'  heard  His  voice  tellin'  him  to  go  one  way,  an'  Jonah 
started  t'other." 

"Why  didn't  Mr.  Jonah  do  what  the  Lord  told  him?" 

"Wall,  he  war  afeared  to  go  to  the  wicked  place  w'ere 
the  Lord  ha'  tolt  him  to  go,  fer  the  mayor  an'  the  aldy- 
men  ha'  sent  Jonah  word  they  would  tar  an'  feather  him 
if  he  came  thar  to  preach." 

"Oh,  he  was  a  preacher!"  said  Nancy. 

"O*  course  he  war.  All  these  fellers  war  w'at  the 
Bible,  or  w'at  the  Lord  ha  'got  out  o'  scrapes  in  peculiar 
ways." 

"Go  on,  please,  Mr.  Evans." 


138  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Hank  jerked  the  last  out  of  the  shoe  and  scrutinized 
his  work,  critically. 

"Wall,  the  fellers  throw'd  Jonah  into  the  sea,  an' 
a  big  w'ale  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  made  to  follow  the  ship, 
he  swallowed  Jonah  hull." 

"And  that  was  the  last  of  Jonah!"  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"No  it  warn't,  not  by  a  jugful.  The  w'ale  went  ashore 
an'  spit  him  out  like  he  war  somethin'  as  hadn't  agreed 
with  him.  Wall,  I  guess  here  be  your  shoe." 

Nancy  put  her  foot  up  on  Hank's  knee  for  him  to 
put  it  on. 

Hank,  startled,  dropped  the  shoe.  Then,  in  picking 
it  up,  he  closed  his  hand  on  the  sharp  needle. 

"W'at  be  the  funnier  part  o'  the  thing,"  said  Hank, 
trying  to  laugh  as  he  pulled  the  sharp  point  out  of  his 
thumb,  "is  that  Jonah  war  alive  an'  kickin'." 

"And  do  you  believe  that,  too,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  "I've  heard  say,  many  a 
time,  as  how  a  w'ale  ha'  swallered  a  hull  boat-load  o' 
fellers  w'at  war  tryin'  to  'arpoon  him.  Wat's  one  man 
to  a  hull  boat-load?"* 

"And  do  you  believe  the  whale  heard  the  Lord  say 
to  swallow  Mr.  Jonah?"  she  asked,  incredulously,  as 
Hank,  admiringly,  buttoned  her  shoe  about  the  small, 
well-turned  ankle. 

"Why  not?  Wat's  it  tells  a  dorg  to  run  arter  a 
rabbit,  minnit  he  sets  eyes  on  it?  Wat  makes  a  cat  jump 
at  a  mouse  like  all  git  out  soon  's  he  spies  it?  Wat  is 

There  was  recently  exhibited  in  many  of  our  cities  a  great  fish,  large 
enough  to  swallow  ten  men,  easily.  A  man  could  stand  upright  between  it* 
ponderous  jawi.  It  was  caught  off  the  Forida  coast. 


"HELL  DOCTRIN'S  O'  THE  CHURCHES"     139 

it  tells  ye  to  run  into  a  store  an'  buy  a  hat  fust  time  ye 
see  it  in  the  window?  Same  kind  o'  noshun  prob'ly 
struck  the  w'ale,  w'en  he  sees  Jonah  come  into  his  shop, 
kerplunk." 

"And  does  Mrs.  Evans  believe  it — about  Mr.  Daniel 
and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Job?" 

"O'  course  she  does.  My  lady  ha'  read  the  hull  thing, 
an'  never  found  nothin'  as  I  knows  on,  as  she  don't 
b'lieve." 

Nancy  rose. 

"Well,  Mr.  Evans,  the  Bible  is  a  queer  book;  and 
I'll  come  over  again  sometime  and  have  you  tell  me  some 
more.  I  haven't  any  Bible.  I  had  one  that  Mr.  Raines 
gave  me,  but  I  couldn't  find  any  funny  things  in  it  like 
you  tell  me." 

"Sho,  now,  that's  too  bad.  Ye  ought  to  have  a  Bible, 
Mis'  Swallow.  I'll  give  ye  mine  to  read." 

"No,  no,  Mr.  Evans.  I  would  much  rather  hear  you 
tell  about  things.  Are  there  stories  of  any  more  funny 
preachers  in  it?" 

"Wall,  I  guess  I  might  scrape  ye  up  a  few  more," 
said  Hank,  wishing  she  would  stay  awhile  longer. 
"Thar's  a  lot  o'  mirakels,  too." 

"What  are  they?" 

"They  be  stories  o'  things  that  ye  can  hardly  b'lieve, 
not  knowin's  they're  true.  But  they  be.  There's  the 
mirakel  'bout  the  man  w'at  throw'd  down  a  stick  an' 
see  it  turn  into  a  snake  right  afore  his  eyes;  an'  the 
mirakel  o'  the  man  w'at  war  so  strong  he  pulled  over 
a  hull  building  full  o'  wicked  people,  an'  killed  the  hull 
lot." 

"And  do  you  believe  that,  too?" 


140  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"If  ye  can  tell  me  how  it  c'udn't  ha'  happened,  I'll 
tell  ye  how  it  c'ud,"  said  Hank. 

"I'll  ask  Mr.  Raines/  she  said,  as  she  went  out  of 
the  shop  laughing. 

"She  be  a  wonder!"  Hank  exclaimed.  "She  nigh 
stuck  me  on  that  Job  mirakel.  If  she  don't  stick  the 
parson,  I'm  a  goat."  And  he  locked  up  shop  and  went 
home  to  dinner. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  MAN  OF  MYSTERY 

The  fall  round-up  was  at  hand.  There  was  unusual 
activity  among  the  cowboys  and  ranchers.  Many  new 
brands  had  been  registered  at  the  "court  house"  since  the 
spring  gathering  of  the  cattlemen,  and  many  transfers 
were  to  be  made.  All  the  cowboys  who  had  come  into 
Old  Town  were  busy  buying  supplies  and  making  deals 
with  stock  owners. 

Billy  KiJKi  rode  up  to  Doctor  Kimball's  gate  one 
evening  as  the  darkness  was  gathering. 

"Hey,  thar!"  he  shouted,  seeing  no  one  about. 

The  front  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Kimball  came  down 
to  the  gate. 

"Where's   Crawley?"  he  asked. 

"He  said  something  about  going  up  to  his  ranch 
tonight,"  she  told  him. 

"Wall,  I'll  go  up  there.  Want  to  know  if  he's  got 
his  branding  iron  ready."  Touching  the  brim  of  his  large 
sombrerro,  he  spurred  his  horse  into  a  gallop,  and  dis- 
appeared in  the  darkness. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Crawley,  riding  leisurely  up  to 
his  hut  on  a  pony  that  staggered  beneath  the  dispro- 
portionate burden,  nearly  rode  over  the  body  of  a  man, 


142  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

a  hundred  yards  from  the  doorway.     The  cayuse  shied 
suddenly,  and  Crawley  fell  off. 

"Caesar's  'ighways!"  he  ejaculated,  letting  go  the 
pony's  rein.  "Who  be  ye?"  He  put  his  hand  on  the 
prostrate  form. 

The  man  groaned,  and  Crawley  saw  he  was  hurt. 
He  went  to  the  cabin,  found  a  lantern  and,  returning  to 
the  wounded  man,  threw  a  light  into  his  face. 

"Je'osophat !  Billy!"  he  exclaimed.  "Wat  the  'ell 
ye  doin'  'ere?  Billy!"  He  shook  him  roughly. 

Billy  Ki-Ki  moaned  in  unconsciousness. 

Crawley  was  worried.  Then  he  thought  of  his  old 
wheelbarrow.  Getting  it  out,  he  dragged  the  body  of 
the  ranger  over  it,  and  wheeled  him  to  the  hut. 

This  rough  handling  seemed  to  take  the  remaining 
spark  of  life  out  of  Billy,  for  he  ceased  moaning. 

Crawley  dragged  him  inside  and  onto  a  pile  of 
straw.  Quickly  he  cut  open  the  clothing,  stripped  his 
shirt  away,  and  saw  a  bullet  wound  in  the  left  breast, 
near  the  shoulder.  Then  he  looked  among  some  bottles 
and  found  a  little  alcohol  with  which  he  bathed  the 
wounded  man's  face  and  lips. 

Presently  Billy  opened  his  eyes. 

"Am  I  done  for?"  he  asked,  feebly. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Crawley  assured 
him.  "Ye're  plugged  in  the  shoulder  onct.  Anyw'ere 
else?" 

"Yes,  in  the  leg,  somewhere.  That  dropped  me." 
The  effort  threw  the  strong  plainsman  again  into  uncon- 
sciousness. 

Crawley  cut  away  the  heavy  leather  chaps,  to  find  the 
other  bullet  had  entered  just  above  the  knee,  making  a 
bad  wound. 


THE  MAN  OF  MYSTERY  143 

Another  application  of  alcohol  revived  Billy,  and 
Crawley  told  him  he  would  go  at  once  for  Doctor  Kim- 
ball.  In  the  meantime  there  would  be  nothing  else  for 
him  to  do  but  to  wait. 

"Aint  ye  got  a  little  water,  Crawley?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  drop;  nothink  but  this  'ere  alcohol  an'  a 
little  lin'ment." 

"Get  the  doctor,"  Billy  said,  hoarsely. 

Crawley  put  out  the.  light  and  went  for  his  cayuse ; 
but  that  animal  had  disappeared  in  the  darkness,  and 
all  his  whistling  failed  to  coax  him  into  sight.  Hatless 
and  coatless,  Crawley  started  to  walk  the  five  miles  to 
Old  Town. 

He  had  gone  a  third  of  the  distance,  when  he  was 
overtaken  by  a  horseman  from  the  North  Gap.  Hailing 
him,  it  proved  to  be  Jerry  Flinn,  a  range  rider. 

Crawley  told  him  what  had  happened,  borrowed  his 
flask  of  whiskey,  and  the  man  was  off  like  the  wind  for 
the  doctor. 

About  the  same  moment  Nick  Maloney  stepped  into 
the  loafing  room  of  DeLand's  hotel.  DeLand  was  alone, 
running  his  eyes  up  and  down  the  page  of  his  account 
book,  in  a  perplexed  manner,  and  pulling  at  his  long 
moustaches. 

Nick  looked  about,  cautiously,  and,  satisfied  that  no 
one  was  present,  put  his  wrinkled  face  over  the  counter. 

"Delont,"  he  said,  in  a  hoarse  voice,  "it  coom  again — 
in  the  same  wa'ay!" 

"Wat?    Ze  ghost,  Neek?" 

"Shure !  An'  at  the  same  toime,  d'ye  moind  now, 
Delorit,  just  as  I  wor  lightin'  me  candle  to  see  me  way 
to  bed  at  Riley's  last  noight."  He  paused  and  looked 
fearfully  around.  The  Frenchman  stared  at  him. 


144  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"An'  it  wor  him,  as  shure  as  me  fayther  wor  a  man 
of  his  wor-rd!"  Nick  went  on  dramatically.  "An'  if  I'd 
niver  seen  Larry  Gorin  dead  in  Skinner's  saloon  that 
noight,  I'd  swear  it  wor  him,  fur  I  see  him  as  plain  loike 
as  I  be  seein'  ye,  now,  Delont." 

"Vat  did  Ce  say?"  DeLand  whispered,  towering 
above  the  little  Irishman,  as  he  peered  into  all  the  corners 
of  the  room. 

"He  wor  soilent,  whin  he  come  in,  an'  I  niver  heard 
the  lotch  at  all,  d'ye  moind,  till  'e  sez,  sez  he,  'Howdy, 
Nick.  Keep  a  place  in  the  stage  for  me  tomorry,'  sez  he, 
'fur  I  be  goin'  to  Old  Town,  an'  I'll  be  afther  ridin'  wit' 
ye.'  It  wor  jest  w'at  he  sez  the  ither  toime,  th'  noight — " 
"Sh — !  not  so  loud,  Neek,"  said  DeLand,  glancing 
toward  the  door.  "But  ee  is  not  come  'long,  hey?"  he 
asked,  with  an  attempt  to  smile. 

Nick  looked  behind  him,  cautiously. 

"Av  coorse  'e  didn't;  fur  th'  bye  is  dead  'rn  a  dure 
nail,  an'  I  wor  thar  whin  old  Rimnent  pushed  the  dirt  in 
a  top  av  'im.  Shure,  it  wor  his  ghost,  d'ye  moind, 
Delont" 

This  time  the  hotel  keeper's  hair  did  rise,  and  a  fright- 
ened look  came  into  his  face. 

"Wo  ees  come  on  le  stage,  Neek?    Some  strangair?" 

"Thar  wor  an  old  mon  with  white  hair  an'  lame  in 
the  lig,  and — holy  mither!  an'  the  mon  that  coom  over 
the  day  Kirby  wor  kilt,  wor  the  same — " 

The  front  door  opened  with  a  sudden  push,  and  Jerry 
Flinn  entered. 

"Whar's — "  He  stopped  short  and  stared  at  Maloney 
and  DeLand,  both  of  whom  stood  rigid  and  terror-faced. 

"Whar's  Doc  Kimball  live?"  he  demanded.     "Billy 


THE  MAN  OF  MYSTERY  145 

Ki-Ki's  shot— plugged  in  two  places,  up  at  Crawley's 
shanty." 

DeLand  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"Neek,  ye  go  fer  le  doctair  wit'  Jerry.  If  ees  not  at 
'ome,  ees  prob'ly  pass  by  Channing's  stor'."  He  gave 
Nick  a  push  in  the  back  to  arouse  him. 

"Shure,  sor.  Coom  wit'  me,  Misther  Flinn.  Holy 
Virgin,  an'  'oo'l  be  nixt,  I  dunno!  An'  it's  Misther 
•Ki-Ki,  is  it?  Will  'e  doie,  d'ye  think,  Misther  Flinn?" 

"He  will  if  ye  don't  git  t'  movin'  an'  find  Doc  Kim- 
ball,"  said  Jerry. 

As  they  started  away,  Flinn  turned  to  DeLand. 

"I've  rid  from  the  North  Gap,  D,eLand,  an'  my  horse 
is  played.  Put  'im  up,  an'  let  me  have  yer  cayuse.  I'm 
goin'  back  wit'  some  grub  an'  a  jug  o'  water." 

"  'Ee'll  be  ready  by  de  tam  you  get  back,  Jerry.  Ees 
Billy  go  fer  to  die,  d'ye  tink?" 

"Can't  tell  's  yet.  Haven't  seen  'im."  And  Jerry 
followed  Nick  out  the  door. 

They  found  the  doctor  at  the  store  and  a  few  moments 
later  he  and  the  cowpuncher  were  galloping  back  to 
Crawley's  ranch. 

Crawley  had  returned  and  found  Billy  weak  from 
loss  of  blood  and  partially  delirious.  He  could  do  noth- 
ing but  moisten  the  sufferer's  lips  with  a  little  whiskey 
from  time  to  time  till  the  doctor  arrived. 

The  latter,  on  close  examination,  found  that  the  bullet 
which  had  entered  the  ranger's  breast  had  passed  clear 
through,  making  another  hole  back  of  the  shoulder.  The 
other  wound  was  more  difficult  to  treat.  He  failed  to 
locate  the  bullet,  but  found  that  the  bone  had  not  been 
touched. 

After  doing  all  he  could,  the  doctor  left  him  with 


146  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Crawley  and  Flinn,  promising  to  return  at  an  early  hour 
the  next  day. 

The  following  morning,  Nancy  Swallow,  with  a  lot  of 
youngsters,  was  on  her  way  to  the  river  for  a  day's  out- 
ing. Passing  the  doctor's  home,  she  saw  Mrs.  Kimball 
in  the  flower  garden,  and  reined  up  at  the  gate.  The 
doctor's  wife  came  down  the  walk,  her  hands  covered 
with  mud.  She  told  of  Billy's  accident. 

"And  the  poor  fellow  is  out  there  in  that  old  shanty !" 
Nancy  exclaimed.  "Why,  he  will  die  there — if  he  isn't 
blown  away  by  the  wind." 

"So  the  doctor  fears,"  said  Mrs.  Kimball. 

Nancy  came  to  a  quick  decision.  Sending  the  chil- 
dren on  alone,  she  turned  back  to  the  store  to  consult 
with  Dick.  Half  an  hour  later  she  was  on  her  way 
to  Crawley's  ranch  with  Alec  Lattimer,  in  Tupper's  light 
spring  wagon,  in  which  were  some  quilts  and  a  mattress. 

Before  noon,  Billy  Ki-Ki  was  put  to  bed  in  the 
Swallow's  spare  room.  Laura  Waters,  begging  Nancy 
to  let  her  come,  was  allowed  to  assist  in  caring  for  him. 

But  neither  Doctor  Kimball,  nor  Crawley,  nor  any  of 
the  cowboys,  who  had  gone  to  the  ranch,  armed  and 
eager,  early  that  morning,  had  been  able  to  get  one  word 
from  the  ranger's  lips,  as  to  who  had  fired  the  shots,  or 
how  the  affair  had  happened.  There  were  many  indi- 
vidual speculations,  but  the  one  who  might  have  come 
nearest  to  the  real  facts,  was  Max  Bronson.  He  had 
an  idea  there  was  some  connection  between  the  wound- 
ing of  Billy  Ki-Ki  and  the  death  of  old  man  Kirby. 

Bronson  had  a  secret  which  no  one  in  Old  Town 
shared.  It  had  been  he  who  had  ridden  into  the  village 
for  a  doctor,  and  told  of  the  stabbing  of  the  rancher. 


THE  MAN  OF  MYSTERY  147 

Then   he   had   gone   north   toward   the   deserted   cabin, 
which  later  passed  into  Crawley's  hands. 

Seeing  a  light  within,  he  had  gone  up  to  the  door 
and  hailed  the  occupant.  For  answer,  the  light  went  out 
and  no  one  appeared. 

Though  curious,  Bronson  had  ridden  on;  but  this 
curiosity  led  him,  the  following  day,  to  investigate.  He 
went  to  the  shanty,  but  found  no  one  there.  However, 
his  keen  eye  saw  that  the  earth  floor  had  been  disturbed, 

That  night  he  went  again,  taking  with  him  a  spade 
with  which  he  threw  up  the  loose  soil.  He  found  nothing. 
Whatever  had  been  buried  there  had  been  removed. 

But  Bronson,  now,  said  nothing.  He  would  let  Billy 
settle  his  own  scores,  when  he  got  well.  If  he  died — 
well,  cowboys  have  a  way,  sooner  or  later,  of  rinding  out 
things.  They  never  forget. 


CHAPTER  XIX 
BILLY'S  SECRET 

Martha  Channing,  urged  to  a  sense  of  Christian  duty 
by  Parson  Raines,  went  over  to  see  if  she  could  assist 
in  caring  for  the  wounded  ranger.  Laura  Waters,  how- 
ever, was  doing  the  housework;  so  Martha  returned 
home. 

For  three  or  four  days,  Billy  was  in  immediate  danger 
of  cashing  in.  He  had  several  hemorrhages,  and  twice 
became  delirious.  Once  they  gathered  round  the  bed,  the 
doctor,  Nancy,  and  Laura,  silent,  waiting  for  the  end; 
but  the  wounded  man  opened  his  eyes,  recognized  them, 
and  fell  into  a  restful  sleep.  The  daughter  of  Luke 
Waters  saw  the  look  of  hope  in  Nancy's  eyes,  and  she 
held  her  friend's  hand  longer  than  usual,  trying  to  keep 
silent  the  thankfulness  in  her  heart. 

After  a  few  days,  Billy  began  to  talk  a  little,  and  to 
realize  where  he  was,  and  that  something  had  happened. 

Nancy  propped  him  up,  and  gave  him  some  of  the 
rice  pudding  she  had  brought  in  to  eat,  and  got  him  a 
cup  of  hot  coffee.  She  answered  his  questions,  by  telling 
him  how  Crawley  had  found  him  up  at  the  shanty,  and 
had  "w'eeled  'im  arf  a  mile  like  a  bag  o'  'emp." 

After  the  rice  pudding  and  coffee,  Billy  became  delir- 
ious again,  and  it  was  during  this  relapse  that  Nancy 


BILLY'S  SECRET  149 

found  out  more  of  the  past  life  of  William  Carruthers, 
than  any  one  in  the  Valley  had  learned  in  four  years. 

Parson  Raines  was  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Swallow 
home,  now.  He  was  surprised  and  interested  when  he 
found  that  Billy  Ki-'Ki,  away  from  the  cowboys  and  the 
ranchers,  gave  evidence  of  education  and  refinement. 

The  first  day  that  Doctor  Kimball  pronounced  Billy 
out  of  danger,  the  latter  sent  for  Crawley. 

"Howdy,  Billy !  howdy,"  the  Englishman  greeted  him, 
his  red  face  beaming  with  a  look  of  pleasure,  as  he 
shuffled  into  the  room  anM  took  a  seat  by  the  bed. 

"Heard  ye  war  truckin'  me  all  over  the  Valley  the 
other  night,  in  a  wheelbarrow,"  said  Billy.  "Couldn't 
find  no  one  else  to  take  me,  hey?  so  ye  brought  me  to 
Mrs.  Swallow's." 

"Never  said  nothink  o'  th'  kind,  Billy.  I  told  as  'ow 
I  'ad  to  truck  ye  into  the  ould  coop  up  thar,  fer  ye  got 
plugged  afore  ye  got  into  me  parley,  Billy.  An'  it  war 
Mis'  Swallow  w'at  trucked  ye  into  civilization — as  the 
huckster  man  said  onct,"  he  finished,  discovering  Nancy 
in  the  doorway.  "It  war,  now ;  an'  ye'd  been  gone  like  a 
hevening's  dream,  as  the — " 

"Now,  Mr.  Crawley,"  Nancy  broke  in,  shaking  her 
finger  at  him,  "Billy  don't  care  to  hear  what  I  did. 
He  wants  to  know  about  the  round-up,  and  whether 
you've  got  your  branding  iron  ready.  I  know,  for  he 
asked  about  it  a  hundred  times  when  he  was — a — 
dreaming." 

"Was  I  delirious,  Mrs.  Swallow?"  Billy  started  up, 
and  the  sudden  movement  made  him  clinch  his  teeth  from 
the  pain. 

"I — I  thought  so,  Billy,  when  you  were  talking  about 


150  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

the  branding  iron,  and — and  the — and  other  things.  May- 
be you  knew."  She  stammered,  and  her  face  flushed. 

The  ranger  dropped  back  on  his  pillow,  and  lay  in  a 
thoughtful  mood  for  a  moment  or  two,  looking  at  her 
through  half-closed  eyes.  Then  he  turned  to  Crawley. 

"Where's  my  horse?    D'ye  know,  Jim?" 

"He's  at  Doc  Kimball's,  Billy.  He  war  brought  in 
by  one  o'  the  Yahkimas.  Found  'im  clear  hover  to  the 
Reservation.  The  saddle  war  gone,  clean  as  a  whistle, 
as  the  peddler  said  onct,  an'  the  rein  wit'  it,  but  the 
siwash  knew  'im  to  be  yourn." 

"How's  the  round-up  going?" 

"Everythink's  all  right  s'far's  I  know,  Billy.  It's  all 
Greek  to  me,  as  the  parson  says,  a  ridin'  an'  yellin'  like  a 
pack  o'  bloomin'  Injuns,  an'  a  stink  o'  burnt  weal  in  the 
air." 

Meanwhile  Billy  lay  in  a  half-dream.  What  a  long 
time  he  had  been  away ! — yet  he  hadn't  been  anywhere — 
only  here,  among  the  bedclothes.  Was  it  all  a  dream? 
But  this  is  a  boat,  and  there  is  Helen  facing  him,  reach- 
ing for  the  white  lily  blossoms.  The  water  taps  the  side 
of  the  boat,  as  she  leans  over  the  edge.  Be  careful, 
dear! — no,  it  is  only  Mrs.  Swallow,  tucking  the  quilt 
about  his  shoulders,  and  the  parson,  blowing  his  nose  into 
a  handkerchief. 

The  sun  is  getting  brighter,  now.  The  geraniums 
look  like  red  gashes  in  the  green  lawn.  .  .  .  Home  again ! 
Strange  there's  no  one  at  the  porch,  waiting.  Surely 
Helen  knew  he  would  come  at  that  very  hour.  It  is  so 
quiet ;  no  life  anywhere.  Helen!  Where  are  you?  Helen  1 
Helen ! 

"Billy!  Per  'eavens  sake,  man!  W'ats  the  matter?" 
Crawley  was  pushing  him  back  on  the  pillow,  for,  with 


BILLY'S  SECRET  151 

a  sudden,  half-swallowed  cry,  he  had  sprung  up,  star- 
tling them  all. 

Nancy  thought  he  was  dying,  and  pushed  Raines 
out  of  the  room,  and  sent  him  after  the  doctor.  Then  she 
took  Billy's  hand  that  was  clutching  at  his  wounded 
shoulder  and  rubbed  it  between  hers,  looking  with  mute 
terror  at  Crawley. 

"  'E  'ad  a  bloomin'  fit,  suddint  like,  an'  yelled  hout 
like  a  'ouse  afire,  as  the — as  hi  war  sayin' ;  an'  e's  fainted. 
'E'll  come  to  in  a  minnit,  Mis'  Swallow." 

"Are  you  better,  Billy?"  she  whispered,  bending  over 
him. 

He  opened  his  eyes  and  nodded,  faintly. 

"What  was  it,  Billy?" 

"Just  another  dream,  I  guess,"  he  said,  grimly. 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  CONVALESCENT 

One  Saturday  morning  Billy,  convalescent,  was  up 
in  a  big  chair  in  the  sitting  room. 

When  he  found  himself  in  the  warm  sunshine  of  an 
Indian  Summer  day,  a  look  of  content  came  into  his 
eyes.  He  caught  a  reflection  of  his  bearded  face  in  the 
mirror  opposite,  and  his  exclamation  brought  Nancy  in 
from  the  kitchen. 

"Aren't  you  afraid  of  me?"  he  asked.  "I'm  getting 
to  look  like  an  old-time  buccaneer,  only  I'm  not  so  heavy. 
Guess  I've  lost  a  little,  haven't  I,  Doc?" 

"Just  a  little,  Billy.  But  you'll  make  it  up  again, 
man.  Mrs.  Swallow  knows  a  whole  lot  about  cooking 
and  baking  things  that  she  didn't  know  when  you 
arrived ;  and  she'll  feed  you  up,  now." 

They  all  laughed,  for  Billy  had  learned  of  his  attempt 
to  eat  rice  pudding  a  little  too  soon.  "Anyhow," 
the  doctor  supplemented,  "that  was  Mrs.  Channing's 
pudding." 

"Where's  Laura?"  he  asked. 

"She  hasn't  been  over  yet  this  morning,"  Nancy  told 
him.  "She  will  be  glad  when  she  sees  you  sitting  up. 
She's  such  a  dear,  sympathetic  girl." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "so  she  is."    He  may  have  been  think- 


THE  CONVALESCENT  153 

ing  of  the  various  times  when,  through  his  feverish  eyes, 
he  had  seen  old  Luke's  daughter  watching  by  his  bedside. 
Once  when  she  thought  him  sleeping,  he  had  seen  her 
drop  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed  to  hide  her  willful  tears 
in  the  quilt;  and  he  heard  her  whispering  some  little 
prayer  that  had  been  taught  her  in  childhood  days. 

After  the  doctor  had  gone,  Nancy  got  a  comb  and 
brush  and  began  straightening  out  her  patient's  heavy 
black  hair,  all  matted  and  tangled. 

What  a  great,  handsome  man  he  was!  What  a  fine, 
shapely  head  and  mane — like  his  own  big,  black  horse! 

It  had  seemed  strange  to  her  that  of  all  the  cowboys 
and  ranchers  whom  she  met  on  the  range,  he  was  the 
only  one  who  passed  her  by  unnoticed.  She  would  have 
been  surprised,  perhaps,  had  he  spoken,  as  others  did ; 
for,  somehow,  she  felt  so  incomparably  small  when  she 
looked  at  him.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  known 
him  for  years.  She  had  come  to  call  him  "Billy,"  like 
the  others,  and  she  knew  it  pleased  him. 

Today,  as  she  brushed  out  his  thick  hair,  she  found 
herself  wondering  about  his  past.  WTho  was  this 
"Helen"?  His  wife,  probably;  and  he  had  loved  her  and 
she  had  died. 

A  tear  that  had  stolen  out  on  her  cheek  dropped 
upon  his  forehead.  He  looked  up,  startled.  She  stepped 
back  and  hastily  wiped  her  eyes. 

"My,  how  foolish  of  me !"  she  exclaimed.  "I  was  actu- 
ally crying  and  didn't  know  it!" 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said.    "Come  and  sit  down  here." 

She  obeyed ;  and  for  a  time  he  sat  silent,  with  his 
eyes  upon  her. 

"You  are  sorry  for  me?" 

She  looked  down  at  the  rug. 


154  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

He  waited  a  moment. 

"Mrs.  Swallow,  does  anyone  else  know  —  did  anyone 
else  hear — " 

"No,  Billy,"  she  broke  in,  looking  up,  quickly.  "I 
kept  everyone  away  while  you  were  —  were  talking,  you 
know." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  he  said,  and  turned  his  eyes  to  the 
open  window. 

For  several  moments  she  waited  for  him  to  continue, 
wondering  what  he  was  going  to  say. 

Then  his  glance  came  back  to  her,  and  she  saw  that 
a  great  tenderness  had  come  into  his  eyes. 

"She  was  my  wife,"  he  said,  simply.  "I  worshipped 
her.  She  was  my  whole  world.  I  was  happy.  One  day 
I  came  home  and  found  her  missing.  She  had  gone  — 
never  to  return,  her  note  said.  I  could  not  understand. 
I  have  never  understood.  She  was  happy,  I  believed, 
and  I  thought  she  loved  me.  That  was  six  years  ago. 
I  came  west  —  here.  This  life  helps  me  to  forget  —  and, 
God  knows !  to  forgive,  as  well." 

He  closed  his  eyes. 

"Billy,"  she  asked,  in  a  low  voice,  "do  you  believe 
God  was?" 

He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  looked  at  her,  intently. 

"Anyone  who  believes  in  God  has  some  reason,  I 
suppose,  for  his  belief,"  he  replied.  "If  you  are  living 
as  near  right  as  you  know  how,  Mrs.  Swallow,  you  will 
get  to  heaven  quicker  than  many  of  these  praying  church 
members,  who  never  live  according  to  the  religion  they 
profess.  Damn  the  hypocrites !  I  say ;  and  I  hope  you'll 
never  be  a  hypocrite." 

"I  never  will,  Billy,  for  I  shall  never  believe  God  was." 


CHAPTER  XXI 
BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES 

The  next  morning,  as  the  light  began  to  show  above 
the  mountains,  Parson  Raines  left  home,  and  went  along 
the  road  to  the  river.  It  was  quite  usual  with  him  to 
take  these  early  Sunday  morning  walks,  often  striking 
out  through  the  sagebrush,  or  following  one  of  the  bridle- 
paths, seeking  inspiration  to  give  him  renewed  encour- 
agement, as  well  as  some  new  thought  for  his  work. 

It  had  been  a  sudden  setback  to  his  hopes  and  plans 
when  Nancy  Swallow  told  him  she  was  not  coming  to 
church  again;  but  she  did  not  give  the  reason,  and  he 
was  too  well  bred  to  question  her.  He  surmised  that 
Martha  was  to  blame. 

Of  late  he  had  begun  to  see  a  new  beauty  in  the 
dull  sage,  in  the  trees  along  the  river  bank,  in  the  water 
itself,  the  mountain  peaks  and  the  blue  hills,  and  in  the 
sunrises  —  all  more  interesting  since  Nancy  came. 

As  he  walked  along  he  thought  of  Nick  Maloney's 
experience,  of  the  mystery  surrounding  the  shooting  of 
Billy  Ki-Ki,  and  of  his  visits  to  the  Swallow  home.  On 
these  occasions  he  had  endeavored  to  put  himself  on  a 
more  familiar  footing  with  the  cowboy  leader  and  his 
friends,  by  showing  a  greater  and  more  informal  interest 
in  their  work,  and  their  hardships.  It  had  seemed  to 


156  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

him  of  late  that  many  of  these  men,  while  not  attending 
the  services,  were,  nevertheless,  trying  to  get  on  closer 
terms  with  him;  and  he  found  himself  wondering  if, 
after  all,  there  was  not  a  better  way  to  turn  men  to 
God  than  by  telling  them  they  would  be  destroyed  in 
the  eternal  fires  of  hell  because  they  did  not  share  his 
belief. 

His  church  had  taught  him  that  God  knows  the  very 
thoughts  of  a  man's  heart,  and  knows  what  he  will  do. 
Yet,  last  night  he  had  read,  in  Deuteronomy,  that  God 
had  kept  the  Israelites  forty  years  in  the  wilderness,  so 
that  He  might  learn  what  was  in  their  hearts,  whether 
they  could  be  trusted  or  not. 

He  had  read  somewhere  that  "man  proposes,  and 
God  disposes."  But  this  could  not  be  true,  for,  surely, 
men  seek  the  better  things  of  life  —  joy,  peace,  success  — 
and  they  pass  away  in  pain,  misery  and  despair.  God 
surely  could  have  no  part  in  death,  nor  in  pain,  misery 
or  despair.  Yet,  his  church  had  told  him  he  must  believe 
that  God  takes  men  away,  in  death !  Why,  then,  should 
it  be  written,  "He  that  is  the  author  of  death  is  the 
devil?"  Is  it  not  a  sin  to  ascribe  to  God  the  acts  of 
Satan?  Would  not  this,  indeed,  be  the  unforgivable  sin 
in  this  life  and  in  the  next? 

It  must  be  that  God  proposes,  but  man  disposes.  God 
gives  life,  and  man,  disobeying  the  laws  of  nature,  throws 
life  away.  Yet  this  should  not  apply  to  the  child  who 
has  not  learned  to  know  good  from  evil.  On  whose 
shoulders,  then,  must  the  responsibility  rest  for  these 
untimely  deaths  of  little  children? 

True,  in  many  places  in  this  Book,  which  his  church 
had  said  was  wholly  the  inspired  work  of  God,  he  had 
read  that  God  sent  men  against  men  to  slaughter  and 


BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES          157 

destroy  each  other;  that  God,  so  it  read,  had  told  them 
to  murder  the  men  and  the  children  and  the  old  women, 
but  to  take  the  younger  women  for  their  own  unholy 
use.  In  other  places  this  so-called  inspired  Book  told 
him  that  God,  Himself,  slew  Er  and  Onan,  the  sons  of 
Judah. 

Yet,  God's  own  commandment  reads,  "Thou  shalt  not 
kill."  And  did  he  not  place  a  mark  on  Cain,  a  murderer, 
so  that  men  would  not  kill  him,  even  though  Cain  had 
killed  his  brother? 

"Abraham,  returning  from  a  slaughter  of  the  kings — " 
He  had  read  that,  too,  how  this  famous  "father  of  Israel," 
having  killed  a  lot  of  men,  and  their  wives  and  children, 
and  taken  their  goods,  had  met  Melchizedek,  associate 
of  the  wicked  king  of  Sodom,  and  had  given  to  this 
ungodly  priest  of  Sodom  a  tenth  of  all  he  had  stolen.  Yet 
God  made  Abraham  the  father  of  a  multitude,  father  of 
kings,  ancestor  of  the  glorious  Christ. 

Moses,  too,  even  he  who  received  as  he  said,  from  the 
hand  of  God  the  tables  of  the  law  —  the  commandment 
which  reads,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill" — became  the  slayer 
of  thousands  —  even  brought  the  penalty  of  death  into 
the  very  laws,  and  said,  "Thus  saith  the  Lord  God :  An 
eye  for  an  eye ;  tooth  for  a  tooth."  And  if  any  man  should 
do  this,  or  that,  "he  shall  surely  be  put  to  death."  In 
this  did  not  Moses  set  at  naught  the  most  important 
command  of  God,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill"? 

Does  the  same  great  Book  not  say  that  death  is  an 
enemy  of  God's  own  plan,  and  that  it  shall  some  day  be 
overcome  by  the  Son  of  God?  How,  then,  can  death  be 
overcome  when  the  power  of  death  is  given  of  God  to 
men,  and  men  commanded  to  murder  men  and  women 
and  innocent  children? 


158  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

How  can  we  ever  hope  that  evil  may  be  overcome 
with  good  if  we  continue  to  mete  out  evil  for  evil,  death 
for  death,  "an  eye  for  an  eye;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,"  and 
believe  that  God,  Himself,  would  have  it  so? 

And  he  had  read  "The  Lord  God  put  a  lying  spirit 
in  the  mouths  of  his  prophets" !  But  again  he  had  read, 
"The  father  of  lies  is  the  devil" ! 

And  it  read,  "I  make  peace  and  I  create  evil,  saith  the 
Lord  God."  Why,  then,  should  it  also  read:  "I  will 
punish  the  world  for  their  evil  doings?"  And,  again, 
"Recompense  no  man  evil  for  evil." 

Surely,  if  a  man  believe  these  things,  how  can  he 
say  which  is  God  and  which  is  Satan?  And  is  it  any 
wonder  that  men  hate  God  and  seek  evil,  being  told  that 
the  Bible  is  the  inspired  Word  of  God? 

Yet  nowhere  had  he  ever  seen  in  all  the  Scriptures 
one  line  that  said  the  Bible  is  the  Word  of  God.  Not 
a  word  told  him  that  all  therein  is  inspired  by  God, 
Himself. 

Perhaps  this  is  it :    The  Word  of  God  is  in  the  Bible — 

and  the  words  of  Satan,  too.    And  that  we  should  seek 

wisdom  from  God  that  we  may  discern  which  is  true 

and  which  is  false. 

"Come,  let  us  reason  together,  saith  the  Lord  God." 

This  is  the  secret,  then:  That  man's  reason  should 
prevail,  the  false  statements  separated  from  the  true,  and 
the  truth  be  made  plain  to  those  who  shall  reason  by  the 
help  of  prayer. 

Yet,  if  he  were  to  tell  these  thoughts  to  his  con- 
gregation, he  would  quickly  be  removed.  Even  if  it  were 
known  to  his  bishop  that  he  doubted  the  established  creed 
and  doctrines  of  his  church  he  would  be  brought  to  trial. 

"Good  morning!"  said  a  voice  behind  him.    Turning, 


BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES          159 

startled,  he  saw  Nancy,  on  her  pony,  a  few  yards  away. 

"I  see  I  am  not  the  only  one  who  appreciates  these 
glorious  mornings,"  she  said,  as  he  waited  for  her  to 
come  up. 

What  a  picture !  he  thought.  Almost  a  part  of  nature 
itself,  in  her  green  skirt  against  the  dark,  glossy  side  of 
her  horse,  a  yellow  cap,  her  hair  blowing  about  in  the 
awakening  breeze,  and  dashing  against  the  red  glowing 
in  her  cheeks.  At  Dick's  request,  she  had  made  herself 
a  dress  and  a  cap,  a  replica  of  the  costume  in  which 
he  had  found  her  in  the  poppy  fields. 

Her  eyes  gleamed  with  suppressed  merriment,  and 
she  burst  into  laughter. 

"It  was  so  funny!"  she  exclaimed.  "You  never  looked 
at  me  at  all;  just  went  by  with  your  head  down,  till  I 
feared  you  were  going  to  walk  right  into  the  river." 

"I  had  not  thought  to  find  such  a  pretty  bit  of  wild 
heather  here  in  the  woods,"  he  answered,  with  a  turn 
of  sentiment  unusual  for  him.  Then,  with  a  little  con- 
fusion, he  added,  hastily :  "The  sunrise  is  beautiful  from 
here,  Mrs.  Swallow ;  and  I  was  thinking,  too,  of  you." 

"Of  me?  Tell  me  what  it  was!"  She  sprang  lightly 
to  the  ground,  and  led  Goalie  to  a  fallen  tree,  near  the 
path,  and  sat  down.  Raines  sat  down  by  her  side. 

"How  is  your  patient  this  morning?"  he  asked.  "You 
will  have  him  off  your  hands  tomorrow,  I  believe." 

"Yes,  he  is  going  back  on  the  range  tomorrow." 

"Billy  is  much  indebted  to  you,  Mrs.  Swallow.  He 
might  not  have  lived  under  other  circumstances.  Billy 
is  a  strange  man." 

"Yes." 

"You  have  not  been  able  to  get  out  riding  much  of 
late?" 


160  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Oh,  I  have  not  minded  that,"  she  answered,  with 
the  faintest  shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "But  you  were 
going  to  tell  me  what  you  were  thinking  about  —  of  me !" 

"Well,  at  the  very  moment  you  called  out  I  was  wish- 
ing you  were  here. 

"Me?" 

"Yes.  I  wished  you  might  see  this  beautiful  sunrise, 
and  hear  the  swashing  of  the  water,  and  think  how  it 
flows  along  forever  and  ever.  And  the  purple  hills 
yonder,  and  the  mountains  beyond,  with  their  white 
heads,  as  if  they  had  just  risen  from  the  gray  bed  of 
earth,  and  were  about  to  put  away  their  nightcaps.  Have 
you  ever  wondered,  Nancy,  who  is  responsible  for  these 
things,  and  for  the  warm  red  light  off  there  in  the  sky, 
and  for  the  stars  at  night,  the  rivers  and  the  woods?" 

"I  suppose  you  are  going  to  say  God.  Go  on ;  I  like 
to  hear  you  talk  that  way."  Smilingly  she  drew  down 
from  overhead  a  spray  of  wild  clematis,  and  began  twist- 
ing it  into  a  wreath. 

"Would  you  like  to  have  me  tell  you  how  these  things 
began,  and  how  the  world  and  everything  were  made?" 
A  quick  hope  came  that  she  might  come  to  a  belief  in 
God  through  the  story  of  the  Creation. 

She  nodded  encouragingly. 

"In  the  beginning,  Elohim  created  the  heavens  and 
the  earth." 

"Elohim?" 

"Meaning  the  Gods." 

"I  thought  there  was  only  one  God?" 
"So  far  as  we,  who  are  of  the  Semitic  race — who  are 
descended  from  Adam  and  Eve  —  need  to  concern  our- 
selves, there  is  one  God,  Jehovah.    But  Jehovah  was  the 
Father  only  of  one  race,  which  began  about  5,600  years 


BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES          161 

ago.  There  are  other  races,  such  as  the  Mongolians, 
Hindus,  Assyrians,  and,  probably,  the  Ethiopians,  that 
trace  their  origin  thousands  of  years  before  Adam.  And 
each  race,  in  its  beginning,  had  a  Progenitor." 

"What's  that?" 

"An  Immortal  Father,  now  of  the  Elohim  of  heaven." 

"Where  is  heaven?" 

"Heaven  is  the  name  given  to  the  great  space  above 
us,  in  which  are  the  stars  and  planets;  and  one  of  these 
stars,  a  very  small  one  called,  Alcyone,  appears  to  be 
the  center  of  the  heavens  which  we  can  see,  as  it  has  been 
discovered  that  all  the  stars  and  clusters  of  stars  swing 
around  this  central  planet.  For  that  reason  some  have 
thought  this  star  is  the  abiding  place  of  our  God." 

"My!"  said  Nancy.    "Where  do  they  learn  all  this?" 

"There  are  men  called  astronomers  who  have  redis- 
covered many  things  once  known  to  the  ancient  Egypt- 
ians. Then,  too,  the  Bible  confirms  these  discoveries, 
showing  that  the  ancient  Israelites  knew  about  many  of 
these  things,  and  that  this  knowledge  was  lost  since  the 
Christian  age  began.  In  the  book  of  Job  we  read,  'Canst 
thou  withstand  the  pleasant  influence  of  the  Pleiades?'  — 
and  this  star,  Alcyone,  is  one  of  the  cluster  called 
Pleiades." 

"Who  was  Job?" 

"He  was  one  of  the  greatest  characters  in  Bible 
history." 

"He  had  boils,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes;  how  did  you  know?" 

"Mr.  Evans,  the  shoemaker,  told  me  about  Mr.  Job 
and  Mrs.  Job  —  and  the  devil." 

Raines  laughed. 

"So  you  are  getting  some  shoe-shop  theology?" 


162  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Well,  he  says  the  devil  makes  people  sick,  and  —  and 
burn  up,  and  die  —  like  little  Johnny  Powers.  But  you 
said  the  Lord  took  him  away.  Of  course,  you  ought  to 
know  more  about  it,  for  you're  a  minister.  But  he  must 
be  a  queer  God,  don't  you  think,  to  bring  us  into  the 
world  and  then  burn  a  little  boy  up,  just  so  He  can  take 
him  away  to  heaven." 

She  waited ;  but  he  made  no  answer. 

"Go  on,  please,  about  the  beginning  of  the  world  — 
about  the  Elohim,"  she  urged.  "What  are  they  like?" 

"The  Elohim  are  immortalized  men — men  who  once 
lived,  no  doubt,  on  this  very  earth  of  ours,  as  we  are 
living.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  although  this  word 
should  be  familiar  to  every  Christian,  few  people  have 
ever  heard  about  these  'Elohim.'  Ever  since  the  Bible 
was  written  it  has  always  read,  in  the  first  chapter  of 
Genesis,  that  'in  the  beginning  Elohim'  —  not  God  — 
'created  the  heavens  and  the  earth.  The  Elohim'  —  not 
God  —  'said,  Let  there  be  light.'  The  word  'God'  does 
not  appear  at  all  in  the  original  text  of  this  first  chapter 
of  the  Bible,  nor  any  word  that,  properly,  should  be  trans- 
lated as  God ;  and  so  far  as  the  Bible  is  a  record,  the  God 
of  Israel,  Jehovah,  had  no  part  in  the  affairs  of  this 
earth  until  He  created  the  first  Semite,  Adam.  We  read 
in  the  Bible  that  men  were  created  in  the  image  of  the 
Elohim,  and  in  one  of  the  Psalms  we  read  that  man- 
kind was  created  but  a  little  lower,  in  attributes,  than  the 
Elohim.  Again,  in  the  third  chapter  of  Genesis,  we  read, 
Jehovah  said  of  Adam  and  Eve,  who  had  eaten  of  the 
forbidden  tree,  'They  have  now  become  like  one  of  us, 
to  know  good  and  evil.'  " 

"Who  was  He  talking  to?" 

"To  others  of  the  Elohim,  other  Gods  of  heaven." 


BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES  163 

"Oh,  yes;  but  why  did  God  let  them  eat  that  fruit? 
Why  didn't  He  stop  them?" 

"When  the  Elohim  created  men  in  their  image,  they 
gave  men  dominion  over  all  things  of  earth,  and  gave  to 
them  free  will  in  their  own  actions.  Jehovah,  the  God 
of  the  Semitic  race,  who  is  "Commander-in-Chief  of 
the  spiritual  forces  which,  in  this  age,  seek  to  induce  men 
and  women  to  live  in  accord  with  the  divine  will,  has, 
therefore,  no  right  to  interfere  with  the  free  will  of  men. 
But  men  are  held  responsible  for  their  acts,  and  for  the 
use  of  the  life  that  is  given  them.  God  has  no  right  to 
help  a  man  unless  that  man  shall  ask  for  help.  This 
makes  prayer  the  most  necessary  of  all  factors  in  man's 
fulfillment  of  life's  purpose.  I  have  come  to  see  this 
more  plainly  than  I  did  awhile  ago.  To  do  anything  for 
one  man,  unsolicited,  would,  in  justice,  require  that  God 
help  every  man  to  do  the  right  thing  always,  whether 
the  man  desired  it  or  not;  and  this  would  destroy  the 
great  plan  of  character-building.  Every  man,  individu- 
ally, must  learn  to  overcome.  Resistance,  physically, 
develops  physical  strength.  Moral  resistance  against  evil 
temptations  develops  greater  strength  of  character. 
Every  man  has  the  same  right  to  pray.  Whether  they 
use  this  agency,  and  the  extent  to  which  men  ask  for 
supernatural  help,  depends  all  human  accomplishment. 
Prayer  is  the  greatest  power  for  achievement  in  the 
world.  Men  who  look  to  the  deeds  and  words  of  men 
for  their  own  evolution,  never  get  far.  They  can  hardly 
come  up  to  the  standards  they  choose.  But  from  super- 
natural suggestions  —  conceptions  that  are  given  of  the 
Spiritual  Realm,  any  man  can  accomplish  more  than 
others  have  done.  But  to  get  these  suggestions  and 


164  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

wisdom  from  God,  one  must  be  receptive;  that  is,  one 
must  believe." 

"Why  didn't  God  give  women  the  same  chance?" 

"He  did." 

"Well,  I  have  wanted  to  do  a  lot  of  things,  but  never 
had  a  chance." 

"That  is  because  you  did  not  know  how  to  go  at  it. 
God  gives  to  everyone,  as  they  shall  ask  Him  for  it,  first, 
wisdom;  then  knowledge,  faith,  the  ability  to  read  the 
future,  to  perform  miracles — " 

"Yes,  I  know  about  miracles,"  Nancy  broke  in.  "Mr. 
Evans  told  me  about  Mr.  Jonah  swallowing  a  whale." 

"You  mean  about  a  whale  swallowing  Jonah,"  said 
Raines,  smiling. 

"Maybe  that  was  it.  But  if  Mr.  Jonah  could  have 
swallowed  the  whale,  that  would  have  been  more  of  a 
miracle,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Very  much  so,"  said  Raines,  with  a  burst  of  laughter. 

"What  must  a  man  do  to  be  able  to  work  miracles?" 

"He  must  believe  in  God  —  must  be  a  servant  of 
God." 

Nancy  looked  at  him,  inquiringly. 
"He  must  be  doing  God's  work,"  he  said. 

"Like  you  are  doing?" 

Raines  nodded. 

"And  can  you  work  miracles?" 

"Perhaps  I  could,"  said  he,  beginning  to  be  slightly 
uneasy  at  her  cross-examination. 

Nancy  sat  quiet  for  a  moment,  striking  at  the  leaves 
with  her  quirt. 

"Is  it  a  miracle  to  make  a  sick  person  well  —  like  Mr. 
Evans  said  God  did  to  Mr.  Job?"  she  asked,  presently. 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  answered. 


BIBLE  TRUTHS  AND  BIBLE  LIES          165 

"Why  didn't  you  make  Johnny  Powers  well  —  instead 
of  letting  him  die?" 

Raines  gave  her  a  quick  glance,  and  turned  his  face 
toward  the  river,  but  not  until  she  caught  the  expression 
in  his  eyes.  It  was  a  look  of  sudden  fear,  she  thought, 
and  it  stilled  her. 

Both  sat  quiet  for  a  moment  or  two. 

"Well,"  said  Nancy,  excusingly,  "If  God  wanted  to 

take  him  away    .    .    .    you  had  no  right  to  do  a  miracle 

.     anyway.     .     .     .     But  it  was  a  horrible  death 

.     .     .    And  he  was  such  a  fine  little  fellow     ...    all 

his  mother  had."     She  seemed  to  be  talking  to  herself. 

Raines,  not  appearing  to  hear,  sat  staring  straight  into 
the  rushing  water.  He  started  when  she  said,  "I  must 
be  going  now." 

"No,  no,  not  yet!"  he  cried,  putting  a  hand  over 
hers,  to  stay  her  from  rising.  "I  am  thinking.  You  have 
startled  me.  You  are  a  wonderful  child!" 

He  looked  at  her  with  intense  earnestness. 

She  smiled  at  him,  her  eyes  partly  closed.  Then,  as 
if  she  saw  an  advantage  and  was  determined  to  press  it: 

"I  think  —  if  —  I  —  had  been  —  in  —  your  place,  Mr. 
Raines,  I  —  would  have  —  done  —  a  miracle  —  and  fooled 
God  for  once!"  she  said  with  considerable  feeling. 

"No !  no !    You  mustn't  say  that !" 

"And,"  said  she,  in  a  decisive  tone,  "If  God  ever 
takes  away  anyone  else  I  like  —  well  —  I'll  hate  the  name 
of  God  as  long  as  I  live!" 

"Let  us  go!  Let  us  go!"  he  exclaimed,  shudderingly, 
at  the  blasphemy  he  heard,  and  fearing  more. 

So  Nancy's  Bible  lesson  was  to  go  unfinished. 

He  assisted  her  to  the  saddle,  and  she  rode  away 
among  the  trees. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG 

One  sunny  afternoon  Billy,  on  his  black  horse,  rode 
away  from  the  Swallow  home. 

Doctor  Kimball  had  urged  him  to  go  easy  at  first, 
but  Billy  waved  his  hand  in  farewell,  and  galloped  up 
the  Valley  toward  the  North  Gap,  where  he  was  to  meet 
Max  Bronson  and  cut  out  a  few  hundred  steers  for  the 
south  range. 

After  Dick  had  returned  to  the  store,  Nancy  resolved 
to  try  once  more  to  make  friends  with  Martha.  Passing 
the  shoe  shop,  she  saw  Hank  Evans  working  at  his 
bench. 

He  glanced  up,  whereupon  she  waved  a  hand,  and 
went  on.  Then  she  stopped,  hesitated  a  moment,  and 
returned. 

"Are  you  awfully,  awfully  busy  this  afternoon,  Mr. 
Evans?"  she  asked. 

"Come  right  in,  Mis'  Swallow.  I  be  my  own  boss — 
w'en  my  lady  aint  'round;  then  she  be  the  boss,"  said 
Hank,  motioning  Nancy  to  a  comfortable  chair.  "Wat 
be  in  yure  mind  today?" 

"I  wanted  to  ask  you  just  one  question,  Mr.  Evans. 
There  must  have  been  a  beginning  to  these  things — to  the 
earth,  I  mean,  and  to  things.  Dick  asked  me,  last  night, 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  167 

'which  was  made  first,  the  hen  or  the  egg?'  I  told  him 
you  know  everything  about  such  things,  and  I  want  you 
to  tell  me.  Will  you  please?" 

Hank  grinned. 

"He  be  a  jokin'  ye  Mis'  Swallow.  Nobody  can  answer 
that,  seein'  as  no  one  war  here,  then.  But  my  concepshun 
is,  'twar  the  egg;  fer  everythink  comes  from  the  seed, 
an'  the  seed  be  in  the  egg." 

"But  how  did  the  egg  get  here?" 

"Wall,"  said  Hank,  tapping  his  leather-covered  knee 
with  his  awl,  "few  people  ha'  studied  into  that.  They 
don't  think  as  how  God  ha'  come  on  this  airth  from 
'nother  planet,  sometime  or  nother;  an'  sartin  sure  he 
could  ha'  brought  the  egg." 

"Dick  says,  science  has  learned  that  men  come  from 
monkeys.  Do  you  believe  that,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Well,  some  men  I  ha'  seen,  almost  ha'  made  me 
believe  it.  But  more'n  likely  t'other  way  air  nearer 
right.  W'en  a  man  gits  to  leavin'  out  the  Lord,  he  can 
git  to  be'lieve  most  anythink.  Might's  well  say  a  b'ar 
came  from  a  jack  rabbit,  or  a  horse  from  a  turkle;  thar 
be  spots  on  some  horses  jest  like  them  marks  ye  see  on 
a  big  turkle-shell.  My  concepshun  is  that  it  war  jest  as 
easy  fer  the  Lord  to  make  a  man,  same  time's  He  made 
a  monkey,  as  fer  the  Lord  to  make  a  cat,  same  time's  He 
made  a  mouse;  Or  a  hawk,  same  time's  He  made  a 
chicken ;  or  a  frog,  same  time's  He  made  a  bullhead. 
W'en  I  see  leopard  spots  on  a  catfish,  I'll  give  some 
thought  to  the  monkey  business." 

"Mr.  Raines  says  there  are  many  Gods.    Are  there?" 

"Wall,  I  ha'  read  som'ere  in  the  Bible  that  there  be 
many  Lords  and  many  Gods  in  heaven*;  but  sho!  I 


*Hank  had  in  mind,  probably,  1  Corinthians,  8:5. 


168  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

reckon  one  on  'em  is  more'n  most  people  ever  git  to 
learn  about,"  said  Hank.  "P'raps  fer  a  feller  w'at  ha' 
study'ed  the  thing  clus'  fer  years,  it  might  seem  a  purty 
big  job  fer  one  God  to  take  car'  o'  them  millyuns  o' 
worlds.  But  't  aint  givin'  me  insomny ;  one's  enough  fer 
me.  Didn't  the  parson  tell  ye  'about  the  raakin'  o'  the 
world?" 

"No.  He  was  going  to,  but  he  got  angry  at  me  and 
didn't  finish.  That's  what  I  want  you  tell  me,  if  you  will, 
Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  I  reckon  as  how  his  story  might  ha'  been 
diff rent  from  mine,  not  sayin'  as  my  concepshun  isn't 
'cordin'  to  scriptur'.  But  I  ask  ye,  Miss'  Swallow,  w'at 
'ud  happen  if  the  Lord  took  away  the  sun  ?" 

"Why,  we'd  freeze  to  death,  wouldn't  we  ?" 

"Quicker'n  ye  could  say  'scat' !"  said  Hank,  throwing 
his  awl  in  his  tool  box. 

"But  we'd  have  the  moon,"  said  Nancy. 

"Wall,  considerin'  as  how  the  Lord  ha'  made  the 
moon  same  time  as  the  sun,  it  must  ha'  been,  afore  that 
this  airth  war  a  ball  of  ice." 

"It  takes  water  to  make  ice,  doesn't  it,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"That  be  jest  it  Mis'  Swallow.  The  scriptur'  says, 
there  war  light  and  the  water  rose  from  the  waters.' 
That's  the  ice  melting  from  the  light,  fer  thar  war  no 
night,  fust  three  days,  so  the  light  must  ha'  been  ev'ry- 
w'ere.  Then  arter  the  ice  ha'  melted  an'  the  Vaporation 
ha'  filled  the  air,  an'  the  dirt  began  to  stick  up  through 
the  ice,  the  Lord  ha'  took  all  the  light  an'  ha'  made  it 
into  the  sun  an'  moon.  That's  what  the  scriptur'  says. 
Since  then  the  sun  ha'  melted  all  the  ice,  but  the  Vapora- 
tion comes  back  at  night,  so  's  to  keep  some  o'  the  water 
fer  things  to  drink." 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  169 

"But  which  was  first,  the  water  or  the  ice?" 

"That  be  like  the  egg  question.  I  reckon  as  how 
God  c'ud  ha'  gi'n  the  'vaporation  first,  as  there  be  a  lot 
o'  worlds  bigger'n  ours,  and  'vaporation  allus  starts  back 
that  direction." 

"It's  queer  anyway,  isn't  it,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  w'at  orter  be,  is,  somew'ere; 
an'  all  we  got  to  do  is  to  git  the  right  concepshun  o' 
w'at  orter  be." 

"I  mean,  that  we're  put  here  without  wanting  to 
come,  and  then  taken  away  without  wanting  to  go." 

"Some  po'r  critturs  'ud  be  glad  to  go,  I  reckon,  if 
they  be  all  made  wrong,  like  that  p'or  sister  o'  the 
parson." 

"Do  you  think  God  wanted  her  to  come  that  way?" 

"No,  Mis'  Swallow,  I  can't  think  that.  My  concep- 
shun be,  she  come  that  way  spite  o'  what  the  Lord  ha' 
planned  fer." 

"Why  didn't  God  prevent  it? — if  He  is  such  a  big 
power?" 

"That,  Mis'  Swallow,  is  a  question  w'at  ha'  upset  the 
world  fer  hundreds  o'  years.  My  concepshun  is,  that 
man  ha'  been  given  the  right  to  do  w'at  he  wants  to, 
an'  that  the  Lord  haint  kept  a  right  to  interfere." 

"Then  you  think  some  man  was  to  blame  because 
Miss  Raines  was  born  a  hump-back?" 

"More'n  likely  some  woman.  I  can't  think  as  how 
the  seed  o'  anythink  can  be  wrong.  It  ha'  come  from 
God,  and  if  it  could  grow  crooked  things  like  that  po'r 
girl,  it  ha'  grown  everybody  crooked  afore  now.  My 
concepshun  is  that  every  seed  is  hatched  all  right  but  it 
gits  in  the  wrong  soil.  If  the  soil  be  bad  the  corn  will 
have  po'r  ears." 


170  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"But  shouldn't  there  be  some  way  for  making  these 
crooked  people  straight,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Sh'ud  be,  sure's  ye're  settin'  thar !  But  I  ha'  thought 
many  a  time  that  the  cause  o'  sech  misgrowed  things  air 
the  devil,  w'ich  air  a  spirit'al  thing.  Then  the  only 
thing  to  set  it  right  sh'ud  be  a  spirit'al  power,  contradic- 
tionary  to  the  devil." 

"That  would  be  God,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Thar  ye  have  it!"  said  Hank,  throwing  down  the 
shoe  he  had  been  hammering.  But  it  seems  like  the 
hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  git  these  po'r  afflicted  folks 
to  believe  w'at  is  the  truth." 

"What  is  truth,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"That  be  a  question  w'at  Pilate  ha'  arsked,  an'  it  ha' 
been  arsked  many  times,  since,  an'  no  one  ha'  wanted  to 
answer.  My  opinion  is,  that  Truth  air  a  concepshun  o' 
facts  w'ich  no  argument  o'  man  can't  prove  aint  so." 

"If  a  man — or  a  woman,  believe  it  is  true — if  Janet 
Raines  believed  it,  could  it  make  her  straight,  Mr.  Evans? 
How  are  we  to  know  if  it  is  Truth?" 

"I  reckon  best  way  to  git  a  right  concepshun  air  my 
plan.  I  figger  out  w'at  I'd  do  if  I  war  God,  Hisself. 
Jest  put  yureself  in  His  place  an'  calc'late  allus  to  do 
w'at  is  right  fer  ev'ry  feller,  not  fergittin'  the  worst 
feller  ha'  got  a  right  to  expect  only  w'at  is  good  from  th' 
Lord." 

"There  ought  to  be  some  way  to  get  people  to  believe 
it,  if  it's  true,"  said  Nancy,  musingly. 

"Thar  war  a  Man — haint  the  parson  never  told  ye 
about  it  ? — who  came  to  this  airth  'bout  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  an'  he  ha'  showed  how  it  war  to  be  done.  He 
ha'  laid  his  hands  on  the  po'r  critturs,  an'  ha'  got  the 
blind  to  see,  an'  the  lame  to  walk,  an'  the  dumb  to  speak. 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  171 

He  also  ha'  brought  the  dead  to  life,  so  the  Bible  sez." 

"Is  it  in  the  Bible,  about  him?"  Nancy  asked.  "I 
wish  I  had  a  Bible,  Mr.  Raines  gave  me  one,  but  I  threw 
it  in  the  fire  when  little  Johnny  Powers  died.  If  that 
Man  had  been  here,  maybe  He  would  have  made  Johnny 
well.  Do  you  think  so,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Sure!"  said  Hank,  lifting  a  tray  of  tools  from  his 
box,  and  handing  to  Nancy  a  package  wrapped  in  news- 
paper. 

"Thar's  a  Bible,  Mis'  Swallow,  ye  can  have  fer  keeps. 
I  got  another.  If  ye  read  the  last  part  o'  the  Story,  ye 
will  find  'bout  the  Man.  He  war  called  the  Son  o'  God." 

"Do  you  believe  he  was?"  she  queried. 

"I  sartin  do,  Mis'  Swallow.  Fer's  that  be,  we  air 
all  sons  o'  God — an'  daughters  o'  God." 

"Mr.  Raines  said  the  Gods  are  called,  'Elohim,'"  said 
Nancy,  reflectively. 

"I  dunno ;  I  never  heerd  that.  But  I  run  onto  suthin' 
mebbe  the  parson  never  seen.  It  sez  to  Job,  'w'ere  war 
ye  w'en  the  airth  war  made,  w'en  the  stars  sung  together, 
an'  all  the  sons  o'  God  shouted  fer  joy?'  The  parson 
allus  talks  'bout  the  'only  Son  o'  God/  Guess  that  shows 
thar  was  a  lot  o'  'em,  afore  the  airth  war  anythink." 

"Just  ice,"  reminded  Nancy.  "But  how  can  the  stars 
sing?" 

"It  jest  means  that  all  them  stars  air  full  o'  people. 
Sho !  that  air  Book  sez  as  how  this  airth  war  made  over 
more'n  once." 

"Why  should  we  fear  God?"  Nancy  asked,  after 
watching  Hank  drive  a  mouthful  of  pegs  into  the  sole  of 
a  boot.  "If  He  is  such  a  wonderful  good  Being,  who  has 
given  us  all  these  beautiful  things  of  nature — those  blue 
forests  over  there,  and  the  snow-topped  mountains  which 


172  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

change  from  blue  to  red  and  gold,  and  hold  up  their  icy 
lips  to  cool  the  sun  in  the  hot  summer  days?  See  how 
poetical  I  am  getting,  Mr.  Evans!" 

"That's  right,  Mis'  Swallow.  If  ye  love  natur',  an' 
see  the  purty  things  w'at  we  never  ha'  bought  nor  paid 
for,  ye  can't  go  wrong.  'It  air  the  reflexuns  o'  heavenly 
places,'  a  poet  feller  ha'  said,  onct.  I  can't  see  why  a 
feller — or  a  woman,  fur's  that  be,  sh'ud  be  afeard  o' 
God.  I  ha'  read  som'ere  in  the  Bible,  that  'true  love 
throws  out  all  fear ;'  an'  how  can  ye  be  afeard  o'  God,  an' 
love  Him,  the  same  time?" 

"But  Mr.  Raines  said,  we  should  'fear  God,  and  do 
right.' " 

"I  reckon,  Mis'  Swallow,  as  how  the  parson  ha'  been 
told  that  w'en  he  war  studyin'  them  hell  doctrin's;  an' 
he  ha'  got  to  turn  it  right  side  up,  yit.  W'at  he  means, 
is  that  we  sh'ud  be  afeard  o'  displeasin'  God — same  as 
ye'd  hate  like  sin  to  hurt  your  husband's  feelin's." 

"Why  are  there  so  many  people  who  don't  believe  in 
God?"  she  queried. 

"Ev'ry  man — or  woman,  as  fur  as  that  be — b'lieves  in 
God,  an'  knows  w'at  is  wrong  an'  right  'thout  anybody 
tellin'  him.  W'en  ye  hear  a  man  say  he  don't  believe 
thar  is  any  God,  that  feller  be  a  doin'  suthin'  that  he 
knows  air  wrong  an'  thinks  no  one  don't  know  it.  Louder 
a  feller  talks  agin  the  Lord,  the  more  ye  can  figger  out 
he's  tryin'  to  hide  his  own  cussedness.  The  less  a  feller 
b'lieves  in  God  an'  sech,  the  more  superstishus  he  be. 
Ye'll  find  most  o'  them  women  an'  fellers  w'at  air  hank' 
erin'  to  git  a  voice  from  some  spirit  devil,  air  claimin' 
they  don't  b'lieve  in  God  or  Jesus  Christ." 

"Dick   says  the   church    people   believe   that   Christ 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  173 

didn't  have  a  father,"  said  Nancy,  reflectively.  "You 
don't  believe  that,  do  you,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  I  ha'  thought  a  good  deal  'bout 
that.  If  I  war  the  Lord  God,  I  w'udn't  want  anyone  to 
be  born  like  the  way  ev'ryone  air  bein'  born.  The  Bible 
tells  'bout  another  kind  o'  birth  waitin'  fer  ev'rybody 
w'ich  air  to  be  without  blood.  The  blood  is  w'at  sez  if 
a  feller'll  have  a  lot  o'  faults  an'  diseases,  an'  cussedness 
to  rise  over.  Lots  o'  times  a  baby'll  have  deformities 
'count  o'  the  mother  gittin'  afeard  that  jest  sech  a  thing 
is  goin'  to  happen.  It  seems  to  make  a  lot  o'  difFrence 
jest  w'at  'tis  that  makes  a  woman  git  noshuns  afore  her 
baby  air  born.  Doc  Kimball  sez  they  had  thought  onct 
if  a  woman  gits  scart  at  suthin',  it  made  her  baby  come 
crooked  an'  sech,  but  he  sez  now  they  know  it  haint  the 
scare  w'at  do  it ;  but  'cause  she  gits  to  thinkin'  arterward 
that  the  scare  'ud  make  the  baby  sech  like ;  an*  the  fear, 
day  in  an'  day  out  arterward,  air  w'at'll  make  the  baby 
jest  the  thing  she  don't  want  it  to  be.  An'  fear,  o'  course, 
is  in  the  blood,  'cause  the  spirit  w'at  makes  a  feller  afeard 
or  glad  an'  sech,  be  op'ratin'  in  the  blood.  So  ye  see,  Mis' 
Swallow,  if  ye  air  to  have  a  baby  w'at  never'll  be  afeard, 
an'  '11  allus  know  w'at's  right  to  do,  it  ha'  got  to  come 
just  the  way  the  Lord  God  ha'  wanted  all  babies  to  be 
born."  ,  JWlf 

"But,  Mr.  Evans,"  pursued  Nancy,  "how  can  anyone 
be  born  without  having  a  father?" 

"If  I  knowd  half  as  much  as  ye'll  know  a  thousan' 
years  from  now,  an'  jest  a  little  w'at  the  Lord  God  ha' 
got  to  know  by  now,  I  c'ud  tell  ye  jest  how  it  c'ud  be 
done.  Sartin  sure  w'atever  c'ud  ha'  fixed  it  so  as  a 
woman  c'ud  have  a  baby  a-tall,  c'ud  ha'  fixed  a  way  fer 
it  to  happen  a  better  way  than  'tis,  now.  Doc  Kimball 


174  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

sez  thar  be  bugs  an'  animals  now  w'at  can  git  their 
young  that  way  an'  t'other  way,  too;  an'  that  afore  a 
baby  be  born  it  air  both  male  an'  female  an'  jest  as 
likely  to  be  a  girl  or  a  boy.  He  sez  ev'ry  woman  air  both 
a  man  an'  woman,  fur's  that  be,  all  her  life.  Then,  as  1 
figger  it  my  way,  it  air  jest  necessary  fer  the  spirit  o' 
the  Lord  God,  op'ratin'  in  a  woman's  blood,  to  make 
her  do  the  hull  thing,  'stead  o'  needin'  a  man.  Then  her 
baby  'ud  be  a  hunderd  times  better,  ev'ry  way,  an'  c'ud 
overise  a  lot  o'  things  bigger'n  men  can  think  on,  now. 
Way  I  see  it,  the  'maculate  concepshun  o'  Jesus  war  the 
only  natur'l  birth  we  ha'  heered  tell  on,  an'  ev'ryone  else 
be  born  contrary  to  w'at  the  Lord  God  ha'  planned, 
'riginally.  The  parson  ha'  told  me,  onct,  it  be  the  Lord 
God  w'at  purposes,  an'  man  air  doin'  things  contrary  all 
the  time." 

Nancy  was  studiously  silent  a  few  moments. 

"Mr.  Evans,"  she  said,  presently,  and  Hank,  glancing 
up  from  his  wort  saw  a  wonderfully  bright  light  in  her 
eyes,  "if  what  a  woman  fears  will  happen  wrong  with 
her  baby  is  what  makes  it  deformed,  then  why  shouldn't 
it  be  that  what  a  woman  is  real  sure  will  happen  that 
is  good,  will  make  her  baby  more  perfect?  Maybe,  if 
she  wanted  it  to  have  brown  hair,  or  blue  eyes,  and  really 
felt  it  would  be  just  like  that — or  if  she  wanted  a  girl 
instead  of  a  boy,  and  got  to  feel  every  day  it  would  be, 
perhaps  she  could  have  just  what  she  wanted." 

"Like's  not,  Mis'  Swallow.  Anyways,  ye  jest  b'lieve 
it,  an*  ye  can  count  on  it.  Never'll  hurt  nothin'  to  want 
the  best  o'  ev'rythink.  The  desire  o'  the  heart  air  the 
most  powerful  thing  in  the  world." 

Nancy's  eyes  changed  their  expression,  dreamily. 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  175 

"I  shall  want  my  baby  to  be  a  girl,"  she  said,  as 
though  talking  to  herself.  "I  shall  want  her  to  look  like 
me  and — and,  oh,  I  want  her  to  be  so  good  and  kind, 
and  love  to  do  right,  and  never  hurt  anyone's  feelings. 
I  shall  want  her  to  be  my  own  self,  doing  the  great 
things  I  wish  I  might  do,  and  will  make  everyone  glad 
because  she  came.  Oh,  my  baby!  I  wish  you  were 
here!" 

Hank's  hammer  had  stilled,  as  his  glance  rested  upon 
Nancy's  face,  illumined  by  the  spirit  of  natural,  mother 
instinct  within.  Presently  her  eyes  came  to  his,  misting 
a  little  from  the  sympathy  of  his  great,  honest  heart. 

"Ye  jest  got  to  b'lieve,"  he  said,  gently,  low,  almost 
in  a  whisper.  "Ye  jest  got  to  b'lieve.  The  Lord  God'll 
do  the  rest" 

Hank's  hammer  went  back  to  its  work  again,  and, 
presently,  Nancy  took  up  his  Bible. 

"Why  shouldn't  we  do  these  things  that  Man  did?" 
she  asked,  turning  the  pages  at  random. 

"We  o'rt  to,  sure's  ye're  a  foot  high,  Mis'  Swallow. 
But,  shucks!  men  don't  have  faith  enough!  an'  it  takes 
faith,  Mis'  Swallow." 

"Like  Job  had?" 

"More'n  that.  An'  what's  more,  it  sez  in  thar  that 
if  a  man  b'lieve  about  God,  he  can  do  bigger  things  'n 
that  Man  did." 

Nancy  had  stopped  at  a  well  thumbed  page  in  Hank's 
Bible,  and  read  aloud  a  marked  verse: 

"He  that  believeth  and  is  baptized  shall  be  saved;  but 
he  that  believeth  not  shall  be  damned." 

"What  does  it  mean  to  be  baptized?"  she  asked. 

"It's  a  plan  th'  Lord  ha'  told  John  the  Baptist  war 
to  be  done  'stead  o'  burnin'  a  sheep  er  a  goat — to  show 


176  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

he  war  wantin'  to  do  right.  It's  like  a  man  come  from 
another  kentry,  like  I  come  from  England.  He's  got 
to  take  out  natur'lashun  papers,  so's  he  can  have  some- 
thing to  say  in  the  gover'ment  o'  this  kentry.  He's 
got  to  say  he's  quit  o'  the  other  boss  and  will  be  loyal 
to  our  president.  Wen  a  man's  through  with  the  devil, 
an'  wants  to  serve  the  Lord,  he  gits  baptized.  It's  his 
natur'lashun  papers  to  the  world,  an'  it  gives  him  power 
to  do  things  in  the  spirit'al  gover'ment  o'  the  Lord." 

"I  suppose  'damned'  means  going  to  hell,  doesn't  it?" 

"That's  what  them,  as  writ  the  hell  doctrines  o'  the 
churches,  ha'  wanted  it  to  mean ;  but  the  parson  ha'  told 
me  onct,  the  'riginal  word  war  'j  edged,'  only,  that  ye'll 
be  jedged  fer  not  seekin'  to  learn  w'at's  right.  Shol  I 
reckon  thar'll  be  more  git  to  heaven  'thout  being  baptised, 
or  that  never  heard  o'  Jesus,  as  them  w'at  has.  Sartin 
sure  Moses  an'  Abraham  an'  Elijah  warn't  baptised,  an' 
they  air  goin'  to  be  here  w'en  the  Lord,  Hisself,  comes, 
so  I  ha'  read  in  the  Bible." 

"Dick  says,  according  to  the  Bible,  Adam  and  Eve 
ate  something  off  a  tree,  which  is  the  cause  of  people 
having  to  die.  Do  you  believe  that,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"That's  somethin'  it's  hard  to  believe  by  them  as 
don't  study  it  out  fer  themselves.  I  ha'  read  that  no 
one  can't  stand  afore  the  Lord,  Hisself,  whilst  he's  got 
blood.  Blood  air  w'at  makes  us  git  sick,  an'  git  disease ; 
it  air  the  cause  o'  man's  cussedness,  an'  I  ha'  thought  as 
how  Adam  an'  Eve  didn't  have  no  blood  at  first,  cause 
they  ha'  stood  afore  th'  Lord  afore  they  et  that  forbidden 
appel  or  w'atever  it  war.  That  ha'  pisened  'em,  sartin 
sure,  fer  arter  that  they  never  war  able  to  git  near  the 
Lord.  It  must  a  gi'n  'em  blood  to  live  on  'sted  o'  spirit ; 
an'  that's  w'at  it  means  to  be  'born  agin.'  Ye  got  to  git 


THE  HEN  OR  THE  EGG  177 

back  to  a  body  w'at  can  live  without  blood.  Then  the 
devil  can't  git  hold  of  a  feller  like  he  can  now.  Jesus 
ha'  riz  from  the  dead  arter  he  lost  his  blood;  an'  that's 
w'at  it  means:  every  man's  got  to  shed  his  blood  afore 
he  can  git  free  from  sin.  Them  that  b'lieves  he  done 
it,  will  b'lieve  as  they  can  do  it.  That's  w'at  it  means 
'bout  bein'  saved  by  the  blood  o'  Jesus." 

Nancy  read  on,  aloud: 

"These  signs  shall  follow  them  that  believe:  in  my 
name  shall  they  cast  out  devils;  they  shall  speak  with 
new  tongues;  they  shall  take  up  serpents,  and  if  they 
drink  of  any  deadly  thing  it  shall  in  no  wise  hurt  them ; 
they  shall  lay  hands  upon  the  sick  and  they  shall 
recover." 

"Can  a  man  do  all  these  things  if  he  believes  it  is 
true?" 

"Mebbe  it  means  any  man  that  ha'  faith  enough;  or, 
any  man  that  the  sick  feller  b'lieves  can  do  it.  Any- 
ways, the  Man  what  is  writ  about  thar,  said  as  how  men 
shall  do  greater  things  than  he  did." 

"Miracles?" 

Hank  nodded. 

"But  it  don't  mean  a  feller  can  jest  go  out  an'  grab  a 
rattler  thinkin'  it  won't  bite  him.  He  got  to  remember 
w'at  the  Lord  Jesus  ha'  said  to  Satan,  w'en  Satan  ha' 
tuk  him  up  to  the  top  o'  the  big  temple,  an'  said:  'If 
ye  be  the  Son  o'  God,  ye  can  jest  jump  down,  fer  it  is 
writ :  The  angels  will  lift  ye  up  in  their  hands,  an'  ye 
won't  git  hurt.'  But  the  Lord  Jesus  ha'  answered:  'It 
be  also  writ  that  ye  shan't  tempt  God.' " 

"I  wish  I  were  a  man!"  said  Nancy. 

"Ye  jest  keep  yerself  a  woman,  Mis'  Swallow,"  said 
Hank,  with  earnestness.  "W'at  man  c'ud  ha'  made  them 


178  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

ranch  critturs  stop  cussin'  and  drinkin',  like  ye  ha'  done?" 

"Have  they  done  that?"  she  asked,  in  surprise. 

"They  shore  have  that !"  said  Hank. 

"Well,  I  think  I'll  go  for  a  ride,"  said  Nancy.  "I  was 
going  over  to  Martha  Channing's,  but  I  don't  want  her 
to  see  this  Bible.  She  might  think  I  am  playing  hypo- 
crite, just  to  make  friends." 

"She's  an  obstinat  crittur.  She  don't  make  home  none 
too  pleasant  fer  Burke,  I  reckon.  He  ha'  tolt  me  onct 
he  haint  'lowed  to  set  foot  in  their  parler,  'cept  they  got 
company." 

"Maybe  that  is  why  he  goes  to  Skinner's  saloon,  so 
much,  to  play  cards.  Why  do  men  gamble  away  their 
money,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  w'ere  a  man  ha'  lost  faith  in 
his  brains,  he  starts  tryin'  fer  luck." 

"If  I  were  a  man  I  wouldn't  want  any  money  I 
couldn't  feel  I  had  got  through  my  ability.  Men  ought 
to  be  too  proud  to  take  luck  money." 

"Wen  a  cuss  loses  faith  in  his  brains,  Mis'  Swallow, 
he  ha'  lost  'bout  all  respect  fer  hisself,  too.  I  ha'  read, 
'the  love  fer  money  air  the  root  o'  all  evil';  an'  many  a 
good  man  ha'  gone  wrong  arter  he  got  it.  Fellers  w'at 
ha'  been  straight  as  a  hick'ry  tree  afore  they  got  a  hankerin' 
to  git  rich,  war  so  crooked  arterward  they  ha'  got  to  sleep  in 
a  round-house  to  feel  comfortable." 

"I'm  coming  again,  sometime,  Mr.  Evans,"  said  Nancy. 
And  she  went  out  of  the  shop,  whistling. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 
"You  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!" 

Arriving  home,  and  without  waiting  to  change  the 
bright  red  dress,  or  light  red-banded  sombrerro,  she  ran 
to  the  stable,  and  saddled  Coalie.  A  moment  later  she 
was  cantering  toward  the  South  Gap,  a  narrow  gateway 
in  the  range  of  hills,  through  which  the  swiftly  flowing 
Yahkima,  coming  in  at  the  North  Gap,  rushes  across  the 
Valley,  on  through  the  Reservation,  and  into  the 
Columbia. 

This  South  Gap,  or  pass,  is  formed  by  a  range  of 
foothills,  lying  in  a  semi-circle  to  the  east,  that  creeps 
around  toward  the  stream,  as  though  to  form  a  junction 
with  the  range  that  follows  along  the  westerly  bank, 
southwestward. 

The  approaching  highland,  on  the  west,  ends  abruptly 
at  the  river,  rising  perpendicularly  for  fifty  feet  or  more. 
On  either  side  of  the  river,  is  a  narrow  roadway,  so 
narrow,  in  fact,  that  one  team  can  hardly  pass  another 
at  some  points.  But,  opening  toward  the  south,  the 
Gap  widens,  as  the  hills  draw  back  from  the  bank  of  the 
stream. 

Nancy  rode  quickly  through  the  pass,  and  on  for 
two  or  three  miles,  then  turned  into  the  timber  skirting 
the  river.  Dismounting,  she  led  the  pony  along  under 


180  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

the  trees  till  she  came  to  a  secluded  spot,  where  she 
tied  him  to  a  branch. 

She  threaded  her  way  through  the  woods,  rich  in  the 
warm  red  and  yellow  coloring  of  autumn,  starting  up 
the  birds  in  a  wild  chattering. 

Presently,  she  came  upon  an  Indian  camp  of  three  or 
four  tepees,  a  couple  of  dogs,  and  a  big  kettle  suspended 
over  a  pile  of  charred  coals. 

She  looked  in  at  the  entrance  to  one  of  the  tents. 
Two  round-faced,  big-eyed  squaws  sat  on  the  ground 
beading  little  moccasins.  A  papoose  fretted,  pitifully,  on 
a  pile  of  blankets  near  by. 

Entering  the  tepee,  Nancy  took  up  the  little  one.    The 
mother  eyed  her,  curiously. 

"Toot'/'  she  said,  intimating  the  child  was  teething. 

"Poor  'ittle  papoose  baby!"  said  Nancy,  rubbing  the 
child's  gums  with  her  ring.  Then  she  hugged  him  close 
to  her  breast  while  she  swayed  back  and  forth,  humming 
a  low  lullaby.  The  baby,  evidently  not  accustomed  to 
such  dainty  handling,  broke  out  in  a  loud  wail,  where- 
upon she  put  him  back  near  his  mother,  and  went  out 
to  stroll  through  the  camp. 

A  few  yards  distant  an  Indian  sat  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  silently  watching  the  efforts  of  a  companion  who 
had  waded  out  to  a  log,  lodged  among  some  boulders 
near  the  opposite  shore,  where  the  water  was  shallower, 
and  was  engaged  in  spearing  salmon. 

Nancy  sat  down  by  him  and  began  asking  questions. 
At  first  he  paid  no  attention,  but  at  length  her  per- 
sistency thawed  him  out.  He  drew  up  from  the  water 
a  string  of  fine  fish  and,  with  grunts  and  gestures,  told 
her,  "Heap  big  salmon  all  gone.  One  now,  one  after- 
while.  Next  summer  river  full." 


"YOU  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!"       181 

Then,  for  a  while,  she  sat  quietly  wondering  about 
these  people. 

"Do  you  know  about  God  ?"  she  asked,  abruptly. 

The  Indian  nodded. 

"Father  Wilbur,"  he  said. 

"And  Heaven?" 
"Father  Wilbur,  at  Reservation,"  he  answered,  again. 

"Have  you  got  a  Bible?" 

"Father  Wilbur." 

To  this  crude  savage,  the  agent  at  the  Indian  Reser- 
vation was  the  whole  universe. 

Nancy  burst  out  laughing. 

The  siwash  regarded  her,  stoically. 

"And  do  you  know  'Father*  Raines  ?"  she  asked. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Father  Wilbur,  at  fort,"  he  said. 

Presently,  she  saw  the  Indian  glance  up  at  the  sky. 
She,  too,  looked  up  and  saw  great  fleecy  clouds  scurrying 
across  the  blue  background. 

"Heap  big  wind,"  grunted  the  buck,  getting  up  and 
pulling  his  salmon  out  on  the  bank. 

Nancy  rose,  and  hurried  through  the  woods  to  her 
pony.  The  chill  wind  was  coming  up  in  long,  low  sighs, 
stirring  the  prairie  grasses,  and  moaning  through  the 
caynons.  Coalie  had  already  scented  the  approaching 
storm,  and  whinnied  gladly  at  sight  of  her. 

She  led  him  to  the  open,  and  paused  a  moment,  look- 
ing back  across  the  wide  stretch  of  Reservation  lands. 
Miles  away  a  great  wall  of  yellow  dust  was  rising  from 
the  ground.  It  told  her  of  the  storm  that  would  soon  be 
upon  her,  gathering  strength,  in  its  wide  sweep  across 
the  great  plain,  to  tear  through  The  Gap,  and  whirl  and 
swirl  up  the  Valley. 


182  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Another  moment,  and  she  was  in  her  saddle,  galloping 
homeward. 

She  had  covered  scarcely  half  the  distance  to  The 
Gap,  when  she  noticed  a  large  bunch  of  cattle  being 
herded  for  the  night,  back  among  the  foothills.  Some- 
thing in  their  actions  arrested  her  attention.  She  slowed 
her  pony  to  a  canter. 

The  cattle  were  moving  and  swaying  their  heads, 
their  noses  near  the  ground,  puffing  and  snorting  with 
increasing  fear  at  the  rising  wind. 

Nancy  was  alarmed.  She  would  have  to  pass  directly 
in  front  of  them.  The  storm  was  sweeping  toward  her, 
in  ever-increasing  velocity.  She  would  soon  be  enveloped 
in  a  whirlwind  of  sand  and  lava  ash,  blinding  both  her 
and  the  pony,  and  making  it  impossible  for  them  to  find 
their  way  through  the  pass.  Delay,  now,  might  mean  a 
whole  night  in  some  improvised  shelter  from  the  storm. 

A  vicious  gust  tore  away  her  hat,  and  it  went  swirling 
away  like  a  great  bird,  straight  into  the  restless  herd. 
Then,  as  she  galloped  down  the  trail  toward  them,  her 
bright  skirts  fluttering  back  in  the  wind,  several  of  the 
bawling  cattle  broke  away  and  dashed  ahead  of  her 
toward  The  Gap. 

At  the  same  moment,  yells  came  from  the  herders; 
the  ground  trembled  with  rushing  hoofs.  The  snorting 
of  nostrils  and  clashing  of  horns  came  to  her  with 
startling  nearness.  Terror-stricken,  she  looked  back 
over  her  shoulder. 

The  cattle  were  on  a  stampede! 

Cowboys  had  spurred  their  ponies  among  the  animals 
trying  to  turn  back  the  herd  before  they  reached  the 
narrow  pass. 

She  could  hear  the  heavy  breathing  of  the  frightened 


"YOU  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!"      183 

beasts  close  behind  her.    She  could  hear  the  yells  of  the 
night-herders,  the  cracking  of  whips. 

Lashing  her  pony  to  greater  speed,  she  rounded  the 
hill,  into  the  roadway.  She  was  ahead  of  the  stampede, 
and  now  there  would  be  only  the  dust-laden,  blinding 
wind  to  fear. 

"Go,  Coalie,  go!"  she  cried,  bending  low  over  his 
neck. 

A  sharp  turn  in  the  narrow,  winding  road,  and  she 
jerked  him  suddenly  back.  In  her  path  was  a  struggling, 
bellowing  mass  of  cattle,  jammed  one  against  another, 
blocking  the  way. 

She  realized,  in  a  moment,  what  had  happened.  The 
leaders  of  the  stampede,  that  had  broken  away  and 
dashed  off  ahead  of  the  main  herd,  had  collided,  head-on, 
with  a  band  of  cattle  being  driven  through  The  Gap 
from  the  north  range. 

The  stinging  sand  bit  into  her  face.  She  could  feel 
the  pony  tremble  as  she  clung  to  his  mane. 

Nearer  came  the  thundering  hoofs,  the  wild  bawling 
of  beasts,  the  snorting  nostrils.  The  herd  was  already 
in  The  Gap. 

But  she  was  calm.  There  was  no  fear  of  the  death 
that  was  rushing  upon  her.  No  thought  of  human  aid, 
no  crying  out  to  God,  in  her  extremity — no  trust  in  a 
Power  she  had  never  realized.  Only,  faces  and  scenes 
passed  before  her,  Dick,  Martha — a  camp  in  the  California 
plain — her  father — her  stepmother — the  daily  pan  of 
"spuds" — the  convent — Billy,  lying  in  bed,  wounded, 
moaning  and  mumbling  in  his  delirium. 

"Billy!  Billy!"  she  cried,  awakening  into  life.  There 
came  a  thought.  The  river! — her  only  chance! — to  leap 


184  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Goalie  into  the  swift  current,  and  try  to  reach  the 
opposite  shore. 

"Billy !  Oh,  Billy !  Billy !"  she  cried,  again.  Then,  she 
madly  kicked  her  heels  into  the  pony's  side.  She  jerked 
him  sharply;  she  lashed  his  neck  with  the  rein. 

The  little  broncho,  angered  by  this  unusual  treatment 
and  sensing  the  approaching  danger,  plunged  against 
the  high  bank,  bursting  the  saddle  girth  and  throwing 
her,  heavily,  to  the  ground.  Then  he  dashed  ahead  into 
the  pass. 

At  the  same  moment  the  oncoming  herd  rounded  the 
hill  into  the  roadway. 

Nancy  waited,  pressing  close  the  steep,  crumbling 
bank.  There  was  no  longer  hope,  now.  A  few  more 
wild  beatings  of  her  heart,  and  she  would  be  but  a  bit  of 
trampled  flesh  rolled  along  in  the  soft  earth. 

Suddenly,  a  rider  forged  out  from  among  the  frantic 
herd,  his  great,  black  horse  clearing  the  space  to  where 
she  stood  hugging  the  cliff.  Billy  Ki-Ki,  leaning  from 
his  saddle,  caught  the  slender  form  with  his  outstretched 
arm  and  litted  her  up  before  him. 

"Billy!  Oh,  Billy!"  she  clasped  his  neck  with  her 
hands  and  closed  her  eyes. 

"Hold  fast !"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 

The  cattle  were  upon  them,  pushing,  struggling 
against  the  horse's  side.  The  ranger  bent  forward ;  there 
was  a  shot;  a  second,  and  a  third.  Two  steers  fell. 
Those  behind  fell  over  them,  and  in  the  brief  space  thus 
cleared,  Billy  turned  his  horse  and  urged  him  toward  the 
bank. 

Another  moment,  and  the  great  animal  lifted  his  head 
high  and  plunged  into  the  river. 

Her  arms  tightened  about  Billy's  neck,  as  the  cold 


"YOU  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!"      185 

water  came  up  around  them.  The  strong  horse,  strug- 
gling against  the  current,  swam  for  the  opposite  shore, 
barely  escaping  some  of  the  frantic  cattle  which  had 
leaped  into  the  river. 

Some  distance  further  the  shallow  water  permitted  the 
stallion  to  gain  a  footing.  He  plowed  through  to  the 
low,  sloping  bank. 

"Are  you  all  right,  little  woman?"  Billy  pushed  the 
hair  back  from  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  Billy." 

She  clung  closer  to  him.  He  pulled  down  his  broad 
sombrerro  to  shield  her  face  from  the  stinging  sand, 
and  galloped  swiftly  up  through  the  darkness  of  the 
home  valley.  The  bawling  of  the  cattle,  the  yells  of  the 
cowboys,  the  howling  of  the  wind  seemed  far  away. 

She  had  no  thought  of  danger,  now.  She  forgot  all 
save  that  she  was  with  Billy,  his  arm  about  her,  his 
breath  hot  on  her  cheek,  his  great  strength  shielding 
her.  For  a  brief  moment  she  was  living  a  strangely  new 
life.  The  untapped  well  of  womanhood  suddenly  gave 
up  a  full,  rushing  stream  of  overwhelming  joy. 

She  felt  his  arm  tighten  about  her,  and  she  realized 
they  were  again  in  the  river,  fording  the  stream.  Then 
came  the  swaying  motion  of  the  horse,  as  he  bounded 
through  the  brush,  and  the  odor  of  the  sage,  crushed 
beneath  his  sharp  hoofs. 

"You  are  home,  now,"  he  said,  loosening  his  arm,  as 
the  horse  stopped  before  the  gate. 

"Home?    Oh,  yes." 

He  lifted  her  to  the  ground. 

"Are  you  sure  you  are  alright?"  he  asked,  anxiously. 

"Yes,  Billy.     I— I  am— I  am  alright."     She  did  not 


186  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

think  to  tell  him  how  grateful  she  was.  She  went, 
slowly,  up  the  walk  to  the  house. 

There  was  no  light,  no  one  there.  Dick  was  probably 
searching  for  her — worrying,  perhaps.  Well,  it  did  not 
matter. 

She  went  into  her  bedroom,  and  threw  herself  on  the 
bed,  regardless  of  her  wet  clothes,  unconscious  of  every- 
thing, except  that  a  fearful  thing  had  arisen  between  her 
and  the  future,  pushing  back  into  the  past  her  home,  her 
husband,  the  coming  joy  of  maternity — all  that  had  been 
happiness  and  content;  leaving  nothing  but  a  menace 
of  years  to  be  ...  an  unending  stretch  of  desert 
waste. 

Presently,  she  was  aware  that  someone  had  entered; 
she  felt  a  hand  laid  gently  on  her  head.  She  turned  from 
the  pillow  and  saw  Laura  Waters,  sitting  on  the  edge 
of  the  bed. 

"Mis'  Swallow,  what  is  it?    Can  I  do  somethin'?" 

"No,  Laura,  nothing."  She  put  her  hand  over  the 
girl's,  pressing  it  against  her  temples. 

"Mis'  Swallow !  How  hot  your  hands  are !"  exclaimed 
Laura.  "For  mercy's  sake,  Mis'  Swallow !  You're  clothes 
are  wet,  too!  You've  been  in  the  river.  You'll  catch 
your  death  o'  cold!"  Springing  up,  she  lit  a  lamp,  and 
brought  some  clothing  from  a  closet. 

Nancy  sat  up  and,  like  a  child,  she  let  the  strong 
daughter  of  the  ranch  replace  her  wet  garments  with 
dry  ones.  Laura  was  so  gentle,  and  sympathetic,  that, 
when  she  had  finished,  the  young  wife  pulled  the  girl's 
face  down  to  her  own  and  kissed  her. 

"You're  a  good,  good  girl,  Laura!"  she  said.  "And 
oh,  how  bad  I  am !  How  bad  I  am!" 

"There,  now.  Mis'  Swallow,  don't  cry,  don't  cry.   Sit 


"YOU  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!"       187 

down  here;  let  me  hold  you.  There  now;  there  now!" 
Dropping  into  a  big  rocking  chair,  she  pulled  Nancy 
down  on  her  lap,  and  pressed  the  quivering  lips  against 
her  cheek.  The  hot  flesh  burnt  her  own,  and  her  tears 
mingled  with  the  other's. 

When  Nancy  had  grown  calm,  she  told  Laura  of  her 
narrow  escape,  of  the  storm,  the  stampede,  and  of  how 
Billy  had  saved  her  at  the  risk  of  his  own  life.  She  felt 
Laura  shudder  as  she  told  of  how  she  had  crouched 
against  the  crumbling  bank  and  counted  the  seconds  till 
the  end  should  come.  She  felt  the  girl's  breath  come  in 
quick  gasps,  when  she  told  of  Billy,  among  the  maddened, 
struggling  beasts. 

"Oh,  Laura!"  she  cried,  straining  the  girl's  face 
against  her  own.  "You're  my  best — only  friend.  You 
are  a  good,  good  girl,  Laura.  How  glad  I  am  you  are 
here!  Are  you  my  friend,  dear?  Will  you  always  be 
my  friend?" 

She  raised  her  head,  and  looked  pleadingly  into  the 
large,  faithful  eyes  of  the  girl  who  had  never  known 
wrong.  And  Laura  full-souled  and  warm-hearted,  kissed 
the  other's  wet  cheeks  and  answered:  "Allwus,  forever, 
Mis'  Swallow;  you  can  allwus  count  on  me." 

So,  lying  against  the  bosom  of  her  friend,  the  young 
wife  told  her  that  into  her  heart,  unsought,  unwelcomed, 
had  come  a  love  for  the  big,  handsome  ranger,  a  love 
that  should  not  be,  a  love  that  was  beyond  compare ;  for 
it  was  filling  her  life  with  a  strange  new  light,  that 
seemed  to  lead  her  away — away — away. 

She  did  not  notice  how  quiet  Laura  had  become,  nor 
how  much  colder  was  the  cheek  against  her  own.  She 
did  not  know  that  the  heart,  which  was  pulsing  hopefully 
against  her's,  a  moment  before,  had  almost  ceased  to 


188  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

beat.  She  only  knew  that  her  own  heart  was  lighter 
for  having  told  this  new  and  awful  secret;  and  she  felt, 
now,  she  could  fall  asleep. 

"Laura,  dear,  you'll  be  my  friend,  now,  always?"  she 
whispered ;  and  as  she  closed  her  eyes,  she  heard  a  voice, 
low,  hollow-like,  as  though  from  somewhere  far  away: 
"Allwus,  Mis'  Swallow,  allwus.  You  can  allwus  count 
on  me." 

At  that  same  moment,  in  a  private  room  over  at 
Skinner's  saloon,  Dick  Swallow  was  talking,  nervously, 
with  a  man  who  had  just  arrived  in  Old  Town. 

"It's  not  that  I  would  hound  a  fellow,  Swallow,  as 
hasn't  always  done  right,  for  I  know  how  it  is  myself. 
But  it's  a  case  of  live  or  die,  my  boy.  The  jig's  up,  in 
Frisco,  for  a  time,  and,  till  Harding  fixes  things  with  the 
Governor,  which  he  hopes  to  do  through  Osmond,  your 
friend  there,  I'm  up  in  the  air  and  nothing  to  stand  on. 
When  I  had  to  light  out,  I  thought  of  you,  up  here,  and 
it  seemed  like  it  might  be  safe  place  to  sojourn  awhile." 

"How  did  you  know  I  was  here?"  Dick  asked,  his 
body  in  a  cold  sweat. 

"My  pard,  the  man  you  met  in  Frisco  that  night, 
was  passing  through  here  on  some  business  or  other  'bout 
the  time  you  come ;  and  he  recognized  you.  But  say,  my 
boy,  couldn't  you  drop  a  line  to  your  friend,  Osmond, 
and  get  him  to  do  something?" 

"No,  no !"  said  Dick,  his  lip  trembling.  "I'll  do  any- 
thing you  say,  that  I  can  do.  But  Osmond  must  not 
know." 

"Well,  you're  the  stuff,  anyhow!"  exclaimed  the 
other.  "Now  we're  talking,  man  to  man?  Give  me  a 
hundred,  tomorrow,  and  keep  a  close  mouth,  and  I'll  do 
the  same.  I'll  not  trouble  you,  afterwards,  if  I  don't 


"YOU  CAN  ALLWUS  COUNT  ON  ME!"      189 

have  to.  I'll  just  settle  down  here,  under  your  protec- 
tion, as  it  were,  an'  mebbe  I  can  line  my  pockets  with  a 
little  of  the  yeller  stuff,  that  some  of  these  fellers  here 
are  mighty  anxious  to  get  rid  of.  I  know  a  thing  or  two 
about  cards  and  dice,  myself." 

"You  must  never  let  my  wife  see  you;  she  might 
remember,  you  know." 

"Never  fear,  my  boy.  I'm  an  old  pal,  and  I  know 
what's  what.  So  here's  a  go!" 

He  extended  his  hand  to  Swallow,  who  replied, 
weakly  :  "It's  a  go." 

The  man  called  to  the  bartender: 

"A  little  red  eye  this  way,  John !" 

After  a  couple  drinks  each,  they  passed  out  of  the 
saloon.  The  bartender  turned  to  a  lounger,  standing 
near. 

"That  feller  must  ha'  got  a  horrible  cut  some  time  or 
'nother,"  he  said.  "That's  an  awful  scar  across  his 
cheek." 

"I've  seen  him  in  'Frisco,  many  a  time,"  said  the 
other.  "He  is  known  as  'Red  Eye,'  a  name  given  him 
by  the  saloon  men,  'count  of  him  allwus  askin'  fer  'red 
eye'  when  he  wants  liquor." 

"What's  he  come  here  for,  d'ye  think?  Swallow 
seems  to  know  him." 

"Scrape,  prob'ly.  He's  tryin'  to  sell  Swallow  one  o' 
them  sparklers.  They're  dimonts,  fer  sure;  an'  he's 
prob'ly  tryin'  to  raise  stuff." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
DEVILS 

Hank  Evans  sat  at  his  bench  doing  nothing,  but 
looking  off  to  the  mountains.  There  is  little  doubt, 
now,  as  I  look  back  to  the  days  when  civilization  had 
not  yet  got  its  clutch  on  the  broad  Valley  and  the  blue 
hills  of  Washington,  that  these  mountain  slopes  and 
rugged  forests  below  the  white-capped  peaks,  brought 
to  the  shoemaker  a  sense  of  their  great  strength  and 
security  and,  at  times,  drew  his  spirit  out  and  away 
from  his  environment.  His  childish  faith  in  God,  and 
his  abiding  confidence  in  the  very  vastness  of  natural 
things,  gave  to  him  messages  from  the  great  Beyond, 
rounded  up  his  quaint  thoughts  and  shaped  his  remark- 
able philosophy. 

Hank  was  thinking  about  Molly  Powers.  Widow 
Powers  had  been  behaving  peculiarly  for  some  time. 
Shortly  after  the  tragic  death  of  her  boy,  the  neighbor 
women,  who  in  a  bluff,  kindly  way  sought  to  get  her 
back  to  her  normal  good-natured  self,  began  to  meet  with 
sharp  discourtesy;  and  recently  some  of  them  told  how 
she  had  ordered  them  away  and  slammed  the  door  in 
their  faces. 

Then,  one  day  she  had  sent  for  Alec  Lattimer  to 
assist  in  putting  together  her  meager  assortment  of 


DEVILS  191 

household  furniture  and  utensils  and  had  him  cart  it  all 
to  an  old  barn  standing  alone  on  a  deserted  homestead 
at  the  edge  of  the  village.  Here  she  had  taken  up  her 
abode,  coming  out  occasionally  in  a  late  hour  of  night 
to  leave,  weighted  down  by  a  stone  on  the  store  porch,  an 
order  for  groceries. 

She  never  spoke  to  anyone,  and  those  whom  she  had 
passed  at  midnight  in  the  road  said  she  muttered  and 
mumbled  continuously  to  herself.  She  had  come  to  be 
spoken  of  as  "the  crazy  widow." 

Molly  Powers,  now  but  a  little  past  thirty,  had  grown 
up  motherless,  in  Old  Town,  as  Molly  Peters.  Her 
father,  once  deputy  sheriff  in  the  Valley,  had  met  a  violent 
death  at  the  hands  of  a  band  of  horse  thieves.  Up  to 
the  time  of  his  death  she  had  ridden  with  him  over  the 
range  and  into  the  mountain  passes,  had  become  a  dead 
shot  with  a  rifle,  and  could  take  off  the  head  of  a  chicken 
at  thirty  yards  with  a  pistol  as  heavy  as  any  her  father 
used.  She  rode,  bareback,  a  scrawney,  vicious  brute  of 
a  cayuse  named  "Satan,"  but  called  "Molly's  Devil"  by 
those  who  liked  the  more  familiar  word,  and  who  never 
dared  go  within  a  dozen  yards  of  him. 

A  few  weeks  after  burying  her  father,  a  young  range 
rider,  Jack  Powers,  whose  father,  up  to  the  day  he  was 
killed  in  the  last  revolt  of  the  Yahkimas,  had  been  a 
lifelong  friend  of  Deputy  Peters,  asked  Molly  to  be 
his  wife. 

"I'll  marry  you,"  said  Molly,  pushing  him  away,  "w'en 
you  bring  me  the  scalps  of  'Black  Mex,'  'Big  Dutch,'  an' 
'Cowiche  Bill/  who  were  in  the  gang  that  kilt  father. 
An'  you  needn't  come  roun'  to  see  me  agin  till  you've 
got,  annywise,  one  on  'em." 

One  night,  a  month  later,  Jack  walked  into  Molly's 


192  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

kitchen  and  set  something  on  the  table.  It  was  covered 
with  a  black-stained,  red  bandanna.  As  Molly,  aston- 
ished, stared  at  the  thing,  Jack  pulled  off  the  rag. 

Staring  back  at  her  from  dead  eyes  in  a  black,  ugly 
face  was  the  mute  and  ghastly  evidence  that  Jack  had 
found  "Black  Mex"  and  terminated  his  infamous  career. 

Molly  screamed  and  fainted. 

When  she  revived  she  found  herself  in  Jack's  arms 
and  knew  that,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  she  had 
received  a  lover's  kiss.  Right  there  and  then  she  made 
a  two-thirds  discount  on  her  previous  terms.  They  were 
married  next  day. 

Came  a  baby  girl,  rosy  and  dimpled,  a  marvellous 
miracle  to  both  of  them,  to  grow  into  Molly's  heart  with 
a  thousand  tendrils  of  childish  prattle,  love  and  inspira- 
tion. 

A  year  later  Johnny  came,  sturdy  and  brown,  like  his 
father,  and  in  a  few  short  months  it  seemed  to  them, 
though  it  was  really  two  full  years,  he  was  marching 
about  the  house  with  a  wooden  gun  on  shoulder,  his 
little  heart  stirred  by  the  talk  of  war  among  men  and 
women  on  every  side. 

One  day  came  a  report  of  an  epidemic  of  small  pox 
among  the  Indians.  Fear  swept  up  the  Valley  and  into 
the  village ;  for  it  was  not  known  then  as  it  has  been 
so  tragically  brought  home  to  us  by  a  hundred  thousand 
deaths  in  the  camps  during  the  recent  world  war,  that 
small  pox  is  not  nearly  so  dangerous  and  deadly  as  the 
filthy,  unscientific,  murdersome  practice  of  vaccination. 

Doctor  Kimball  was  besieged  by  men  and  women, 
bringing  their  children  truly  like  lambs  to  the  slaughter, 
to  receive,  each  of  them,  an  inocculation  of  vaccine 
poison.  Among  the  children  that  suffered  and  sickened 


DEVILS  193 

from  the  desease  thus  injected  into  healthy  bodies,  was 
,  Molly  Powers'  little  girl.  She  died  from  blood  poisoning. 

It  was  almost  a  paralytic  stroke  to  Molly.  From  that 
day  her  whole  nature  changed.  Days  brought  years  of 
age  into  her  cheeks  and  eyes.  Her  loud,  contagious 
laughter  which  had  been  heard  blocks  away  as  she 
watched  her  husband's  efforts  to  catch,  manage  and  ride 
Satan,  without  being  bitten  or  kicked  by  the  diabolical 
brute,  had  been  silenced. 

Jack  took  the  death  of  his  little  girl  less  hard,  out- 
wardly, though  it  may  have  had  something  to  do  with 
his  sudden  inclination  to  volunteer  and  leave  with  Bud 
Andrews  and  a  few  others  for  the  nearest  training  camp. 

He  never  came  back.  Left  badly  wounded  on  the 
battlefield  by  his  comrades  in  a  futile  charge  upon  the 
enemy's  flank  at  Gettysburg,  in  which  Bud's  arm  was 
shot  away,  Jack  was  reported  missing.  He  was  never 
found. 

Molly,  undaunted,  went  to  work,  stoically,  for  her- 
self and  Johnny,  taking  in  washing,  raising  chickens, 
and  selling  milk  from  two  Jersey  cows.  Some  of  the 
more  aggressive  villagers  had  undertaken  to  get  her  a 
pension,  but  a  hero's  widow,  who  couldn't  produce  the 
hero's  head  as  evidence  that  he  had  become  a  hero, 
received  no  more  consideration  in  the  aftermath  of  that 
cruel,  senseless  war,  than  the  more  modern,  live  heroes 
have  received  since  Germany  backed  out  of  Belgium  and 
went  home. 

Now,  just  at  a  time  when  a  promise  had  come  of  a 
position  for  her  as  mail  rider  over  a  transmountain 
route,  Johnny  had  lost  his  young  life  in  the  burning  of 
Crocker's  barn.  Truly,  these  misfortunes,  singly,  and  in 
cruel  order,  coming  into  the  life  of  a  young  woman, 


194  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

alone,  without  knowledge  of  a  living  relative,  with  no 
one  to  love  and  live  for,  were  more  than  it  was  ever  intended 
one  woman  should  bear. 

Molly  had,  indeed,  become  the  "crazy  widow,"  feared 
by  many  who  wanted  to  be  her  friends,  and  shunned  by 
others  who  had  never  entitled  themselves  to  any  con- 
sideration from  her. 

She  had  taken  up  her  abode,  with  her  horse,  in  the 
old  barn,  her  bed  a  stall,  and  her  table  the  manger 
adjoining  that  of  Satan.  Her  cows  and  chickens  were 
being  cared  for  by  neighbors  pending  the  outcome  of 
her  malady. 

It  was  now  being  reported  that  frequently,  at  night, 
she  would  don  her  buckskin  breeches  and  leather  chaps, 
that  had  been  put  aside  at  her  father's  death,  leap  astride 
Satan,  untamed  to  all  except  to  her  own  magic  touch, 
and  with  rifle  across  his  neck,  ride  madly  down  the 
Valley,  through  the  pass  and  into  the  foothills,  returning 
about  the  time  the  villagers  began  to  wake. 

Hank  was  thinking  of  Molly,  and  of  these  tragedies 
that  had  come  into  her  life,  and  the  tragedies  that  come 
into  other  lives  to  break  them,  and  defeat  the  will  of 
Heaven;  and  so  intent  was  his  gaze  mountainward,  so 
absorbing  his  thoughts,  he  had  not  noticed  men  and 
women  rushing  about  in  the  streets,  nor  the  gruff  voices 
of  men,  the  yelling  of  children,  telling  that  something  out 
of  the  usual  order  was  transpiring. 

Laura  Waters,  short  of  breath  and  trembling  from 
excitement,  burst  into  the  shop,  bringing  Hank  back  to 
earth. 

"Mr.  Evans!"  she  gasped,  "the  Widow  Powers  's 
gone  crazy!" 


DEVILS  195 

"Wall,  Laury,"  said  Hank,  quietly,  "I  ha'  heard  that 
afore." 

"But  she's  arter  killin'  somun  now.  She  rode  in  from 
the  hills  and  started  shootin*  at  things,  soon  's  she  got 
in  the  village.  She  shot  the  sheriff's  pipe  right  out  o1 
his  mouth,  as  he  war  sittin*  front  o'  the  town  hall.  An' 
she  killed  Ben  Kitchin's  dog." 

"Were  is  she,  now,  Laury?" 

"She  ha'  rode  into  her  barn  an'  shet  herself  in.  The 
sheriff  air  askin'  fer  volunteers  to  arrest  her  an'  take 
her  to  the  'sylum,  but  none  on  'em  won't  go  near.  They 
know  she  never  missed  anythink  she  shot  at,  an*  they 
haint  takin'  no  chances." 

"W'ere's  the  parson?" 

"He's  with  'em.  He  started  fer  the  barn  but  fust  thing 
off  goes  his  hat  with  a  bullet  through  it.  He  got  out 
o'  range  'fore  she  could  shoot  agin." 

"Wat's  she  mad  about?   Ain't  she  'cusin'  o'  someun?" 

"She  sez,  'Rebels!  Rebels!  Ye  kilt  my  husband !'— er 
somethin*  like  that." 

"Poor  Molly !"  said  Hank,  reaching  for  his  hat.  "Ye 
go  back,  Laury,  an'  tell  the  parson  to  keep  none  on  'em 
from  techin'  her  till  I  come." 

Laura  departed  on  a  run,  as  Hank  locked  up  his  shop 
and  started  homeward. 

Arriving  at  the  house  he  went  to  the  attic,  opened  a 
big  cedar  chest  and  took  out  a  blue  uniform.  How  it 
came  there  Hank,  alone,  knew.  He  had  never  spoken 
of  it,  even  to  "my  lady." 

He  donned  the  clothes,  put  on  the  private's  cap  and 
getting  his  Bible  from  the  mantel  shelf,  he  set  out  toward 
the  local  battlefield. 

By  this  time  half  the  people  of  the  village  were  at 


196  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Ben  Kitchin's  corner,  shielded  by  his  barn  and  outhouses 
from  the  possibility  of  Molly's  deadly  sniping,  but  many 
of  them  led  by  curiosity  to  take  a  chance  in  peeking 
around  the  corners  to  see  what  might  be  the  next  num- 
ber on  the  program.  Some  of  the  men  had  brought  guns, 
rifles,  or  revolvers,  whichever  weapon  had  been  nearest 
at  hand,  but  which  it  might  be  said  to  their  credit,  never 
would  have  been  used  on  the  occasion. 

When  Hank  arrived  at  the  scene,  the  sheriff  had 
decided  to  wait  until  night,  and  then  with  a  strong  force, 
creep  up  to  the  barn,  take  Molly  by  surprise  and  over- 
power her.  He  had  already  appointed,  from  among  a 
number  of  volunteers,  a  squad  of  guards  to  watch  the 
barn  and  Molly's  doings,  until  night  came. 

Hank  paid  no  attention  to  any  of  them,  nor  to  the 
exclamations  of  surprise  at  his  uniform,  but  with  his 
Bible  in  his  hand  he  walked  straight  on  to  the  path, 
turned  in  and  rapidly  approached  the  barn. 

If  Molly  had  been  disposed  to  do  so,  she  could  have 
found  many  a  full-head  target  for  her  bullets,  as  the 
curiosity  of  the  villagers  exceeded  discretion.  Not  a 
shot  came  from  the  barn,  nor  was  there  to  be  seen  a 
movement  of  any  kind. 

Hank  reached  the  door,  found  it  fastened,  and 
knocked,  softly. 

"Molly!"  he  said,  "open  the  door  in  the  name  of  the 
Union,  in  the  name  of  Jack  Powers  who  died  for  it,  on 
the  battlefield!" 

There  was  a  stir  within,  and  he  heard  the  prop  pulled 
away. 

"Come  on  in,  if  ye  want  to,"  said  Molly,  with  a  sup- 
pressed snarl. 

Hank  pushed  the  door  back  and  entered. 


DEVILS  197 

It  seemed  a  long  time  to  the  excited  watchers  but  in 
about  fifteen  minutes  Hank  reappeared,  leading  Molly 
by  a  hand,  a  shawl  covering  her  disheveled  hair.  He  led 
her  across  the  yard,  away  from  the  crowd  and  in  a 
round-a-bout  way  to  his  home,  and  turned  her  over  to 
Mrs.  Evans.  Then  he  went  to  the  attic,  changed  his 
clothes  and  returned  to  his  shop. 

A  large  crowd  was  waiting  him,  with  a  volley  of 
questions. 

"Wat  'd  ye  do  to  her?"  "Didn't  she  fight  ye?"  "How 
'd  ye  do  it?"  One  of  the  men,  forgetting  the  customary 
dignity  accorded  the  "cobbler  knight,"  yelled,  "By  Gawd, 
Hank,  ye're  a  wonder!" 

Hank  waived  them  all  back,  with  a  grin,  made  no 
reply,  went  into  his  shop  and  closed  the  door,  indicating 
that  he  desired  to  be  alone.  The  crowd  dispersed  and 
in  a  few  moments  the  village  was  back  in  its  normal 
condition.  /  j 

In  the  afternoon  Luke  Waters  limped  in  from  his 
ranch,  having  learned  of  the  incident  from  a  passing 
settler.  He  pushed  into  Hank's  shop. 

"Wall,  Hank,  I  heerd  ye  been  a  hero,  yourself,  today. 
Pete,  the  sheep  man,  ha'  tolt  me  ye  done  w'at  the  parson 
an'  sheriff  war  both  scart  to  do.  W'at  ye  got  to  say 
'bout  it?"  I  ^ 

"I  haint  a  sayin'  anythink,  Luke.  'Pears  to  me  if 
parsons  'ud  give  more  time  to  readin'  the  Bible  'stead  o' 
w'at  some  other  fellers  ha'  writ,  wouldn't  be  needin' 
heroes,  as  ye  calls  'em." 

"W'at  yure  Good  Book  had  to  do  with  it,  Hank?  I 
heerd  as  how  ye  just  put  on  a  Union  label,  an'  walked 
inter  th'  barn  an'  fetched  her  out.  Were  'd  ye  git  the 
Union  suit,  Hank?" 


198  -SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Hank  grinned. 

"Guess  lot  o'  'em  want  to  know  same  thing,  Luke, 
but  I  haint  sayin'  a  word — not  to  you,  neither,  nor  any 
o'  them.  The  Lord  ha'  said  ye  jest  got  to  b'lieve  on  His 
sayin's  an'  ye  can  do  bigger  things  'n  he  did." 

"Did  he  have  to  git  a  crazy  woman  back  to  her  senses, 
Hank?" 

"He  ha'  done  it  without  goin'  to  her,  Luke.  Her 
mother  jest  tolt  the  Lord  the  gal  war  home,  full  o' 
seventy  kinds  o'  devils.  'Pass  along,  lady!'  sez  he,  'ye 
aint  o'  the  lost  tribes  o'  Israel.' " 

"Wat  'd  he  mean  by  that,  Hank?" 

"Wall,  Luke,  ye  arsk  a  lot  o'  questions,  an'  I  tell  ye 
a  lot  o'  answers,  but  ye  don't  remember.  I  ha'  tolt  ye 
more  'n  once  'bout  the  restorashun  o'  Israel,  that  air  to 
come.  Thar  be  the  Jews  w'at  ha'  allus  stuck  together 
as  the  Lord  said  they  sh'ud,  an'  ha'  multiplied  together 
'cordin'  to  prophecy.  Then  thar  be  all  them  other  ten 
tribes  w'at  ha'  got  lost  arter  they  got  free  from  slav'ry 
with  the  'Syrians,  'bout  three  thousand  years  ago,  an' 
ha'  gone  into  Europe  an'  ha'  multiplied  with  them  natives 
o'  Danmark,  an'  Swedan,  an'  a  lot  o'  other  Dans,  till  they 
got  to  be  known  'mong  the  Jews  as  their  lost  breth'ren. 
Then  'long  comes  a  prophet  feller  named  Ezekiel  an' 
he  ha'  said  time's  comin'  w'en  Christ  'nd  come  an'  bring 
all  them  lost  ten  tribes  back  to  the  Jews,  w'ich  air  only 
two  o'  the  'riginal  tribes." 

"That  ha'  never  happened,  has  it,  Hank?" 

"Sho !  Ye  know  it  haint,  Luke,  well's  I  do.  But  arter 
the  Jews,  w'ich  war  only  two  tribes,  got  liberated  from 
Babylon  an'  went  back  to  Jerusalem,  then  the  Lord 
Jesus  ha'  been  sent  from  heaven  to  bring  back  the  other 
ten  tribes." 


DEVILS  199 

"He  didn't  do  it,  did  he,  Hank?" 

"Ye  know  he  didn't,  Luke.  Reason  war,  the  feller 
w'at  ha's  been  chose  by  Gabr'el  to  prepare  the  way  afore 
him,  an'  give  the  Lord  a  place  to  lay  his  head,  ha'  pointed 
out  Jesus  as  the  Christ,  afore  he  done  the  preparation, 
an'  the  Lord  ha'  knowd  right  away  he  couldn't  do  much 
restorin'  'fore  the  Italian  soldiers  would  kill  him.  Ye 
see,  Luke,  the  Italians  warn't  goin'  to  have  the  restora- 
shun  prophecy  take  place,  nohow.  They  ha'  killed  all 
the  Jew  babies  w'en  the  emp'ror  heerd  that  Christ  war 
born,  but  they  missed  gittin'  him.  But  they  got  another 
whack  at  him,  w'en  he  ha'  growed  up,  an'  that  Baptist 
feller,  ha'  pinted  him  out  'stead  o'  gittin'  things  fixed 
fer  him  so's  the  Emp'ror  c'ud  ha'  seen  he  warn't  agin' 
'em  arter  all.  The  Italians  got  the  Jew  high  priest  scart 
by  tellin'  him  he'd  better  let  'em  kill  one  man  than  the 
hull  caboodle  on  'em.  Then  the  Italians  fixed  it  up  for 
a  Jew  to  pint  him  out — jest  as  though  they  didn't  know 
him,  theirselves,  an'  so  's  they  c'ud  always  say  't  war 
a  Jew  that  done  it." 

"Were  'd  ye  learn  all  that  parleycluck,  Hank?  Ye 
mean  to  say  the  Lord  ha'  tolt  it  to  ye  ?" 

Hank  grinned. 

"I  ha'  read  it  in  the  Bible,  Luke,  an'  w'at's  more,  I 
ha'  read  it  in  the  poops'  Bible,  too,  arter  all  they  done  to 
make  out  the  Jews  ha'  crucified  Christ.  If  the  feller  w'at 
Gabriel  tolt  to  built  a  city  for  the  Saviour,  had  done  it, 
thar  wouldn't  ha'  been  no  cruifixion." 

"W'at's  all  this  parleycluck  got  to  do  with  Molly 
Powers?  W'at'd  ye  do,  Hank?" 

"Jest  w'at  the  Lord  done  to  them  crazy  fellers  w'at 
come  out  o'  the  cemetary.  It  sez  them  fellers  war  crazy 


200  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

'count  o'  havin'  a  lot  o'  devils  in  'em,  an'  the  Lord  sez, 
'Ye  mean,  ornery  devils  come  out  o'  these  p'or  fellers, 
this  rninnit!'  An'  it  sez  the  devils  come  right  out,  an' 
soon's  they  come,  the  fellers  ha'  got  their  right  senses 
agin." 

"Well,  Hank,  if  that's  all  ye  got  to  do  to  give  senses 
back  to  a  loonatic,  beats  me  w'y  yure  churches  don't  send 
their  parsons  to  do  it  in  the  looney  houses." 

"I  ha'  thought  o'  that,  too,  myself,  Luke.  But,  sho! 
I—" 

He  was  interrupted  by  Laura  bolting  into  the  shop. 

"Hello,  pa!"  she  said.  "Widow  Powers'  devil  air 
raisin'  hell  in  the  barn  since  she  left  him  than  He's 
kickin'  the  barn  down.  Who  d'ye  s'pose  'ud  take  a  chance 
o'  gittin'  him  out.  Mr.  Carruthers  'ud  do  it,  but  he 
haint  here." 

Luke  looked  at  Hank,  with  a  grin. 

"Wall,  Laury,"  said  he,  "thar's  only  one  man  can 
handle  devils  jest  right,  an'  that  be  Shoemaker  Hank.  He 
ha'  been  parleycluckin'  to  me  'bout  drivin'  devils  out'n 
o'  women  an'  fellers  by  the  power  o'  Gawd.  W'at  ye 
sayin',  Hank?" 

"Wall,  Luke,"  said  Hank,  getting  to  his  feet  and 
putting  away  his  tools,  "the  Lord  ha'  writ,  'If  ye  b'lieve 
in  me  ye  can  drive  out  devils  in  my  name.'  He  haint 
said  as  that  don't  mean  horses  jest  's  well's  a  woman. 
Laury,  ye  can  tell  'em  Molly's  devil  will  be  as  tame  as 
they  be  afore  supper  time.  I'll  be  back  in  a  short  spell, 
Luke,  if  ye  want  to  wait.  Or,  ye  can  go  to  the  house 
an'  take  tea  with  me  an'  my  lady  an'  Molly,  soon's  I 
come." 

Hank  set  out  for  his  house  to  get  his  Bible,  Laura 
following. 


DEVILS  201 

"Beats  me !"  said  Luke,  getting  to  his  feet  and  reach- 
ing for  his  stick.  Then  he  sat  down  again  to  wait  Hank's 
return. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
A  SHOE  SHOP  SOUL 

The  next  morning  Nancy  Swallow  ran  lightly  up  the 
steps  into  Hank's  shop. 

"I've  got  just  one  question  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Evans  — 
got  my  bread  started  —  had  to  run  down  to  the  store  to 
get  some  yeast  and  must  get  right  back.  Dick  says 
when  a  person  goes  crazy  they  just  lose  their  mind,  and 
sometimes  it  comes  back  again.  What  is  'mind',  Mr. 
Evans?" 

Hank  chuckled  as  he  dusted  off  a  chair  for  his  visitor. 
He  knew  that  the  incident  of  the  day  before  was  still  a 
live  topic  among  the  villagers. 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  thar  ha'  been  so  much  said 
'bout  mind  an'  soul  an'  sech,  that  it  ben't  no  wonder 
folks  think  they  can  lose  'em  jest  like  they  lose  a  slipper 
off,  chasin'  chickens  out  o'  the  garden.  My  concepshun 
is,  mind  haint  nothin'  w'at  a  feller's  got,  at  all.  W'at 
makes  this  a  shoe  shop  ?  'Taint  the  building.  'Taint  the 
leather  'n  shoes,  an'  tools  an'  sech.  'Taint  me.  Thar's 
a  buildin'  'cross  the  street.  It  haint  a  shoe  shop;  an' 
ye  c'ud  have  this  leather  an'  them  old  shoes  in  yure  cellar, 
fur's  that  be.  It's  a  shoe  shop  jest  w'en  it's  a  buildin'  an' 
I'm  here  working'  an'  makin'  shoes.  Takes  all  together 
to  make  a  factory,  the  buildin'  an'  machin'ry,  an'  the 


A  SHOE  SHOP  SOUL  203 

hull  thing  workin'  an'  perdoocin'  suthin.  A  man  air  like 
that.  Takes  the  body  an'  the  soul  an'  the  spirit,  all 
workin'  together  to  perdooce  thoughts.  Takes  'em  all 
to  make  a  mind." 

"Oh,  I  see  what  you  mean,"  said  Nancy.  "You  believe 
that  mind  is  the  whole  man  —  not  something  he's  got  in 
his  head,  or  somewhere?" 

"Yas,  I  reckon  that's  about  it.  A  man  'thout  a  body 
haint  thinkin'  much.  An'  a  body  'thout  blood  o'  life 
haint  much  good  fer  perdoocin'  thoughts.  It's  got  to  be 
a  hull  man,  alive,  an'  with  a  spirit  givin'  him  suthin  to 
think  on.  Thoughts  haint  much.  It's  the  concepshuns 
ye  git  from  the  spirit  in  the  body,  is  w'at  counts.  Ye 
can't  git  thoughts  jest  as  ye  wants  'em.  If  ye  cu'd  make 
yureself  think  w'at  ye  want  to,  ye  c'ud  own  the  hull 
airth  in  a  short  time.  Trouble  is,  mostly,  ye  air  bein' 
made  to  think  o'  things  ye  wish  ye  c'ud  stop  thinkin'  on. 
It's  the  spirit  w'at  makes  ye  think;  an'  the  spirit  is  run 
by  some  o'  the  five  senses  w'at  ye  ha'  heerd  tell  of.  W'at 
ye  hear,  or  see,  or  feel,  or  taste,  or  smell,  is  w'at  sez 
ye're  goin'  to  think  'bout.  An'  sech  thoughts,  mostly, 
air  w'at  ev'rybody  ha'  thought  on,  sometime  or  'nother. 
It's  the  concepshuns  ye  git  right  out  o'  the  air,  that 
the  Lord's  spirit  gives  ye,  that  counts  most.  Thoughts 
air  jest  copies  o'  concepshuns,  an'  a  feller  can  have  'em 
over  an'  agin.  But  a  concepshun  comes  only  onct." 

"So  it  is  the  spirit  that  makes  mind?" 

"Spirit's  got  to  have  a  shop  to  work  in,  an'  the  shop's 
got  to  have  blood  power  fer  turnin'  the  w'eels.  So  ye 
see,  Mis'  Swallow,  takes  all  three  together  to  make  a 
fact'ry,  an'  mind  is  same  as  a  fact'ry.  Wen  ye  want 
sartin  kind  o'  thoughts  ye  can  git  a  book  or  arsk  ques- 
tions. That's  w'y  I  read  my  Bible.  It  gives  me  thoughts 


204  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

o'  how  the  Lord  'ud  do  things  if  he  war  here.  I  git 
wonderful  thoughts  sometimes  —  'bout  things." 

"I  guess  you  do!"  she  exclaimed,  with  emphatic  assur- 
ance of  her  belief  in  Hank's  remarkable  "concepshuns." 
"What  is  soul,  Mr.  Evans?  Dick  says  it's  what  goes  to 
hell.  Is  it?" 

Hank  laughed  loudly. 

"Ye  said  his  father  war  a  preacher,  if  I  haint  forgot 
rightly.  Preachers  don't  read  much  in  the  Bible  for 
knowledge,  nowadays.  They  git  the  sermons  made  to 
order,  mostly.  The  Bible  sez  that  soul  is  jest  the  blood, 
an'  that  any  animal  w'at's  got  blood  ha'  got  a  soul.  It's 
the  soul  o'  man  w'at  he  can't  take  to  heaven  with  him. 
The  Bible  sez  it  air  the  cause  o'  sin,  an'  ha'  got  to  be 
got  rid  of  'fore  he  can  stand  in  the  presence  o'  the  Lord. 
The  preachers  air  meanin'  spirit  w'en  they  air  talkin' 
'bout  savin'  souls.  'Nother  thing.  They  don't  'pear  to 
know  that  a  feller's  spirit  air  suthin  that's  goin'  to 
be  saved  in  spite  o'  their  hell  doctrin's.  Their  hell 
doctrin's  git  more  fellers  afeard  o'  goin'  to  heaven  than 
to  t'other  place.  Paul,  the  feller  w'at  built  the  first 
church  o'  Christ,  ha'  writ  once,  'Keep  yure  body  an'  soul 
an'  spirit  all  t'gether  till  I  git  thar,'  or  suthin  like  that, 
If  a  man's  blood  air  in  bad  shape  he  haint  goin'  to  do 
much  good  thinkin'.  If  his  body  air  afflicted,  he  haint 
goin'  to  have  same  kind  o'  thoughts  as  a  feller  with  a 
well  body.  Preachers  ha'  better  git  to  preachin'  agin 
w'at  a  feller  shan't  eat  or  drink,  'stead  o'  hollerin'  'bout 
savin'  o'  their  souls  fer  heaven,  w'ich  haint  to  be  'lowed 
in  heaven  a-tall !" 

"May  be  what  we  eat  that  we  shouldn't,  or  what  we 
drink,  affects  the  mind,"  Nancy  suggested. 

"I  ha'  thought  that's  jest  how  that  feller,  Moses,  ha' 


SHOE  SHOP  SOUL  205 

tolt  'em  w'at  aint  right  to  eat.  Wat  a  feller  eats  or 
drinks,  is  w'at  makes  the  blood  an'  body.  So  ye  see, 
Mis'  Swallow,  if  a  feller  steals,  or  kills  a  man,  or  sech, 
seems  to  me  it  air  'cause  his  mind  ha'  been  made  ornery 
'count  o'  his  body  an'  blood  ha'  got  some  affliction.  It 
don't  help  none  to  send  a  feller  to  prison  or  to  the  gallus. 
Next  feller  can  git  same  disease  same  day,  an'  do  the 
same  things.  Crimes  air  mostly  'count  o'  'eatin'  the  things 
the  Bible  sez  shouldn't  be  et,  like  pig  an'  sech.  Jedge 
Lattimer  sez  them  Jew  fellers  w'at  stick  to  the  Bible  w'at 
Moses  ha'  writ  agin  pig  meat,  haint  ever  hung  fer  killin' 
people,  or  doin'  crimes  w'at  other  cusses  air  doin'.  He 
sez  he  never  heerd  'bout  a  Jew  feller  goin'  crazy.  My 
noshun  be  that  most  preachers  ha'  got  a  taste  o'  pig  an' 
sech  'fore  they  got  religion.  Trouble  is,  civil'ashun  air 
tryin'  to  do  things,  astanding  on  its  head.  World  won't 
git  no  better  till  they  stop  givin'  a  po'r  feller  a  disease 
an'  then  hang  him  for  doin'  w'at  he  haint  to  blame  for." 

"I  think  you  are  right,  Mr.  Evans,"  said  Nancy. 
"What  did  you  do  to  Mrs.  Powers'  Satan,  yesterday 
Laura  Waters  rode  him  clear  to  the  South  Gap  and 
back.  He's  just  as  gentle  as  Goalie  is,  now.  What  did 
you  do?" 

"Same  thing  as  ha'  kept  Molly  from  goin'  to  the 
looney  house.  She  be  right  smart  today,  helpin'  my 
lady  over  to  the  house." 

"Dick  wanted  me  to  ask  you  what  you  did?"  she 
persisted. 

"The  power  o'  God!"  said  Hank,  solemnly. 

"Oh!"  said  Nancy,  awed,  but  not  sure  he  had  made 
it  plain. 

"Mirackel!"  Hank  added,  to  make  it  plainer. 


206  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Nancy,  "like  the  Lord  did  to  Mr. 
Job." 

Then  she  slowly  walked  out  of  the  shop  and  home- 
ward, to  her  bread-making,  leaving  Hank  chuckling  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

DOMESTIC  SHADOWS 

All  winter  the  snow  lay  on  the  hills  and  over  the 
Valley.  The  Indians  had  filed  away  to  their  reservations, 
the  cowboys  to  their  ranches. 

Then,  one  night,  the  Chinook  winds  blew  softly 
through  the  canyons  and  over  the  broad  range.  The 
next  morning  every  vestige  of  snow  had  vanished,  leav- 
ing the  ground  as  dry  as  a  desert. 

Neighbors  greeted  each  other  joyously;  the  cow- 
boys and  gaudily-blanketed  Indians  reappeared  in  the 
streets;  the  birds  were  mating;  the  flowers  peeped  out 
timidly ;  all  nature  awoke  from  her  long  sleep. 

Into  Nancy's  home  had  come  a  baby  girl  to  nestle 
at  her  heart.  This  had  brought  to  Dick  the  pride  of 
fatherhood  and  the  pleasure  of  new  ownership. 

But  Dick  had  changed.  He  was  kind,  thoughtful  for 
his  wife's  pleasure,  quite  as  considerate  as  when  his 
boyish  passion  had  been  her  first  inspiration  toward  pur- 
pose and  usefulness. 

It  was  not  his  fault,  perhaps,  that  his  nature  inspired 
love,  but  could  not  develop  it. 

Nancy,  herself,  had  not  realized  this  change  in  her 
husband  until  he  began  staying  out  late  at  night,  some- 


208  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

times  coming  home  surly  and  ashamed,  his  breath  fetid 
with  whiskey  and  tobacco. 

That  he  was  gambling  she  had  no  doubt ;  and  he  had 
lost  considerable,  she  believed,  for  a  sort  of  fearfulness 
had  come  over  him. 

Nancy  never  complained ;  but  this  lack  of  partnership 
in  her  husband's  life,  and  the  vastness  of  the  great  life 
ahead,  to  which  she  had  been  groping,  were  to  be  pushed 
aside  by  the  awakened  mother-love;  and  in  the  same, 
newly-awakened  instinct,  she  was  to  bury  the  unbidden 
secret  that  had  begun  to  take  the  color  from  her  cheeks. 

On  the  other  hand,  if  Dick  had  noticed  any  change 
in  his  wife,  after  she  had  been  so  miraculously  saved 
from  the  stampede,  he  never  spoke  of  it. 

He  was  not  an  observant  man.  With  his  ever  good 
health,  good  appetite,  plenty  to  eat,  and  little  to  worry 
about,  other  than  his  loss  at  cards,  he  had  all  that  he 
considered  necessary  in  life. 

As  for  "Red  Eye,"  the  mountain  had  become  a  mole- 
hill. The  gambler  had  so  fattened  off  the  lambs  of 
Old  Town's  growing  community  that,  after  the  first  scare 
and  subsequent  uncertainty,  he  had  given  Dick  no  par- 
ticular cause  for  uneasiness. 

After  the  arrival  of  their  little  girl  Dick  changed  his 
habits.  At  night  he  came  home,  quite  content  to  let 
Burke  look  after  the  evening  trade,  while  he  lay  back 
in  his  big,  easy  chair,  smoking  and  dozing  taking  as  a 
matter  of  course  the  mechanical  efforts  of  his  wife  to 
entertain  him  and  make  him  comfortable. 

If  he  noticed  a  touch  of  melancholy  in  her  voice  at 
times,  he,  no  doubt,  attributed  it  to  the  implacable 
spirit  of  Martha,  who  remained  unforgiving,  unloving, 


DOMESTIC  SHADOWS  209 

and  was  gradually  becoming  irritable,  nervous  and 
quarrelsome. 

When  the  baby  came  everyone  said,  "Martha  Chan- 
ning  surely  will  now  make  up  with  her  sister-in-law." 
But  they  were  mistaken.  Dick  did  not  send  for  her.  He 
thought  she  would  come;  that  she  must  have  known 
Nancy  would  need  her. 

"An'  this  air  the  little  maid!"  said  Luke  Waters  one 
morning,  stopping  at  the  Swallow  gate,  where  stood 
Nancy,  with  the  baby  and  Dick.  "They  air  wonders, 
these  fust  'uns.  I  mind  well  when  my  fust  'un  war  born. 
An'  a  purty  good  boy  he's  been,  too  —  more'n  the  aver- 
age, I  guess.  If  they  don't  fall  below  that,  they're 
alright.  She's  a  peart  little  maid,  a  smart  'un  by  the 
looks  o'  her.  Send  over  yure  brandin'  iron,  Swallow, 
an'  I'll  mark  one  o'  the  twin  calves  fer  her.  Can't  start 
'em  too  airly  with  stock  o'  their  own." 

"Guess  I'll  have  to  get  an  iron  made  for  her,"  said 
Dick.  "This  makes  the  third  calf,  besides  the  two  fine 
colts  Billy  Ki-'Ki's  given  her." 

And  so  the  "little  maid,"  named  very  properly  after 
Martha  —  a  name  which,  in  time,  became  Maidie  —  had 
her  own  branding  iron  duly  registered;  and  long  before 
she  was  able  to  ride  about  on  a  pony,  horses  and  cattle, 
marked,  "M.  S.,"  over  a  crude  outline  of  a  flying  bird,  were 
ranging  the  hills  along  the  Valley. 

As  for  Martha  Channing,  it  had  begun  to  look  as 
though  her  unrelenting,  unsympathetic  nature  was  to 
be  rebuked  by  a  culmination  of  circumstances. 

In  a  spirit  of  reckless  impulse,  Burke  Channing  did 
things,  when  his  usual  good  nature  was  pushed  to  the 
limit,  that  he  would  not  have  done  otherwise. 

His  habit  of  dropping  in  at  Skinner's  saloon,  after 


210  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

closing  up,  became  more  regular,  until  he  was  seldom 
home  an  evening  in  a  week. 

The  first  time  he  confessed  that  he  had  been  in  a 
little  game  at  Skinner's,  Martha  had  upbraided  him  so 
severely  that  he  lied  to  her  at  other  times;  and,  like 
men  who  are  forced  to  deceive  their  wives  for  the  sake 
of  peace,  he  was  less  conscious  of  his  guilt  when  away 
from  her.  So  he  began  inventing  excuses  to  remain  away 
as  much  as  possible. 

One  evening,  just  as  Dick  was  about  to  lock  up  for 
the  night,  Martha  came  in. 

"Where's  Burke?"  she  asked,  sharply.  Her  color  had 
risen,  and  in  her  eyes  was  an  angry  light. 

"Why,  I  don't  know;  isn't  he  at  home?" 

"At  home?  Would  I  be  asking  about  him  if  he  were 
home  ?  He  hasn't  been  home  tonight." 

"Then  I  can't  tell  you,  Martha.  I  haven't  seen  him 
since  he  started  home  for  supper." 

She  dropped  into  a  chair,  hysterically. 

He  became  sympathetic,  at  once,  and  gradually  calmed 
her.  Burke  had  been  coming  home  intoxicated  of  late, 
she  said.  In  the  past  few  weeks  he  had  been  out  many 
nights  till  nearly  morning. 

"This  can't  go  on,  Martha,"  said  Dick,  determinedly. 
"He  will  ruin  himself  and  the  business.  It  must  be 
stopped." 

"Of  course,  it  must,  and  I  have  done  all  I  know  how 
to  do,  and  said  everything  I  know  to  say.  I've  talked 
to  him  as — " 

"That's  just  it!"  exclaimed  her  brother,  interrupting. 
"You  talk  too  much!  You  overdo  it!" 

"Now,  Dick,  don't  try  to  tell  me  my  duty.  I  know 
it,  and  I  do  it  as  a  Christian  should,  if  ever  a  woman 


DOMESTIC  SHADOWS  211 

did."  Her  voice  was  ascending  the  scale,  and  Dick,  to 
avoid  a  scene,  took  up  his  hat. 

"Go  home,  Martha,"  he  said.     "I  will  find  Burke." 

He  found  him  at  Skinner's  saloon,  as  he  knew  he 
should,  in  a  back  room,  where  some  of  the  worst  element 
of  the  Valley  congregated  every  night.  Burke  was  losing 
heavily,  judging  from  his  oaths,  as  he  shoved  some  money 
out  to  the  center  of  the  table  just  as  Dick  entered.  He 
looked  up  and  saw  Dick  watching  him. 

"All  right,  Dick,  I'm  coming,"  he  said,  staggering  to 
his  feet.  He  was  ashamed,  and  half  frightened  with  the 
thought  that  Martha  had  sent  for  him. 

Channing  was  drunk.  He  had  been  sitting  at  the 
table  nearly  five  hours,  drinking  and  gambling.  It  was 
not  without  difficulty  that  Dick  finally  got  him  home 
and  to  bed.  Then  he  had  a  talk  with  Martha,  at  the  close 
of  which  he  reproached  her  for  her  attitude  toward 
Nancy. 

"There  is  nothing  Christian-like  in  such  a  spirit," 
he  said  to  her,  "and  it  is  this  very  thing  that  has  brought 
on  all  your  trouble." 

"Dick  Swallow,  it  is  not  so !"  she  cried,  angrily.  "As 
for  Nancy,  don't  mention  her  name  to  me !  I  hate  her !" 

Restraining  himself  with  difficulty,  he  rushed  from 
the  house. 


In  the  forenoon  of  the  following  day  Nancy  stopped  at 
Hank  Evans'  shoeshop  for  some  invalid  shoes  which,  by 
this  time,  should  be  convalescent. 

"Dick  says  there's  going  to  be  a  resurrection  some  day, 
and  everyone  who  is  dead  will  come  back  to  life  and  live 
a  thousand  years  more,"  she  said,  seating  herself  while 
Hank  wrapped  up  the  shoes.  "That  isn't  so,  is  it,  Mr. 
Evans?" 

"I  ha'  read  it  in  the  Bible,  Mis'  Swallow." 

"But  that  don't  make  it  so,  does  it?" 

"Wall,  no,  I  reckon  it  don't,"  said  Hank,  after  his  teeth 
had  released  the  string  he  had  been  tying  in  a  knot.  "It  air 
mostly  w'at  orter  be  that  sez  as  w'ether  a  thing's  goin'  to  be. 
Sartin  sure  this  world  warn't  made  jest  fer  them  fellers 
w'at  gits  'nough  money — mostly  by  robbin'  'nother  feller — 
to  travel  'round  an'  see  the  purty  things  w'ich  the  Lord  ha' 
made  fer  all  on  us.  I  hain't  never  seen  nothin'  o'  the  world 
but  in  pictur's,  'cept  w'at's  right  afore  our  eyes,  here.  I 
hearn  tell  'bout  places  w'at  air  so  beautiful,  a  feller  stands 
stock  still  a  hull  hour  a  lookin*  at  'em.  Lots  o'  fellers — an' 
lots  o'  wimmen,  too,  'ud  like  to  see  sech  things,  but  hain't 
'cause  they're  dead,  an'  never  had  no  chance.  How  can  thev 


THE  RESURRECTION  213 

git  a  chance  to  see  'em,  'less  they  git  a  chance  to  come 
back?" 

"But  how  can  they  come  back  to  life  ?  Their  bodies  are 
gone.  They  can't  see  without  eyes;  and  they  can't  hear  the 
water  running,  nor  the  nightingale  singing — not  without 
ears." 

"They'll  git  ears  an'  eyes,  an'  teeth,  an'  sech,  Mis' 
Swallow ;  f er  the  Lord'll  give  'em  new  bodies  w'at  hain't  got 
blood  in  'em,  an'  w'at  won't  git  sick  an'  die  agin, — an'  that 
orter  be,  ain't  it?  The  feller,  Daniel,  w'at  ha'  went  into 
the  fiery  furnace — no,  it  war  in  the  lion's  den  he  war  put 
by  the  king  w'at  ha'  put  Ham,  Sham  and  Indigo  in  the  fur- 
nace. Daniel,  he  ha'  had  a  visit  from  Gabriel,  who  ha'  come 
down  from  heaven  an'  tolt  him  that  a  Day'll  come  w'en  all 
that  air  asleep  in  the  dust  shall  come  back  to  life,  to  be 
jedged  by  the  Lord  God,  Hisself ,  when  He  comes." 

"When  will  that  be,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  the  Bible  sez  one  thing  an'  the  preachers  'nother 
thing,"  said  Hank,  sitting  down  on  his  bench.  "Ye  can  take 
yure  ch'ice.  Bible  sez  arter  Christ  ha'  come  agin  an'  the 
hull  nashun  o'  Israel,  w'ich  air  the  Jews  an'  all  them  'lost 
tribe'  fellers  w'ich  air  brothers  o'  the  Jews  an'  w'ich  the 
parson  sez  air  now  the  Christians,  will  ha'  been  got  together 
agin,  an'  ha'  built  a  lot  o'  cities  all  over  the  airth,  an'  ha' 
sot  up  a  big  Temple  at  Jerusalem,  then  thar'll  come  a  'Syrian 
feller  w'at'll  git  the  hull  caboodle  on  'em  to  think  he  be  the 
real  Christ,  an'  that  Jesus  air  a  humbug." 

"They  couldn't  do  that — after  they  build  all  those  cities  ? 
That  would  take  a  hundred  years,  wouldn't  it?" 

"Bible  sez  it'll  take  more'n  four  hundred  an'  thirty- 
four  years  arter  Christ  ha'  come  agin.  But,  sho!  Human 
natur'll  allus  be  the  same  as't  has  been.  Most  human  thing 
'bout  men — an'  wimmen,  too,  fur's  that  be — air  ungratitude. 


214  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Give  'em  suthin'  fer  nothin'  an'  they'll  blame  ye  'cause  ye 
hain't  got  more  to  give  'em." 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  about  the  Resurrection  Day, 
Mr.  Evans,"  Nancy  reminded  him,  after  Hank  had  sorted 
out  a  wide  strip  of  leather,  and  was  scratching  on  it  outlines 
of  small  shapes. 

"That  air  goin'  to  be  a  big  Day,  ye  can  b'lieve,"  said 
Hank,  solemnly.  "The  'Syrian  feller's  goin'  to  make  a  deal 
with  the  armies,  that'll  be  come  agin  Jerusalem,  to  turn  Christ 
over  to  'em.  Then  he'll  make  a  big  hellabaloo  'mong  the 
scart  Israelites,  an'  tells  'em  Christ  air  a  Jonah,  an'  they 
got  to  throw  him  out." 

"Is  that  in  the  Bible,  too?" 

"Thar's  w'ere  I  ha'  read  it,  in  the  Book  o'  Revela- 
shun." 

"But  that  is  something  that  ought  not  to  happen,  isn't 
it,  Mr.  Evans?"  Nancy  suggested,  argumentatively. 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  the  Bible  ha'  tolt  some  things  that 
ortn't  to  be,  jest  so  they  won't  happen  to  pass — so's  the  peo- 
ple will  keep  from  lettin'  'em  happen.  But,  sho !  fellers  ha' 
never  b'lieved  the  prophets,  an'  prob'ly  never  will.  The 
Bible  ha'  said,  fellers  lie  an'  steal,  an'  break  the  Command- 
ments— w'ich  ortn't  to  be,  but  w'ich  we  air  purty  sure  hap- 
pens to  pass  in  our  time." 

"Alright,  Mr.  Evans;  and  then  what  happens  to  pass?" 

"Bible  sez  Christ'll  be  druv  out  o'  Jerusalem.  But  afore 
the  armies  git  holt  o'  him,  the  Lord  air  goin'  to  draw  him 
right  up  to  heaven  afore  their  eyes." 

"Whopee!"  said  Nancy.  "That'll  be  some  doings! 
Does  the  Bible  say  that?" 

"It  sez  that,  an'  a  lot  more,"  said  Hank,  pausing  in  his 
leather-cutting  to  grin  at  his  visitor's  excited  interest. 

"Well,  that  surely  ought  to  be,  Mr.  Evans.    Wouldn't 


THE  RESURRECTION  215 

it  be  fine  if  the  Lord  had  fixed  it  so  whenever  a  man  is  try- 
ing to  escape  from  his  enemy  he  could  just  grab  hold  of  a 
rope  and  be  pulled  up  into  heaven!" 

Hank  sharpened  his  knife  on  his  whetstone. 

"I  reckon  a  lot  o'  fellers  w'at  air  runnin'  away  from 
some  other  feller  hain't  hankering  to  meet  the  Lord  face  to 
face  jest  at  that  minnit.  Anywise,  the  Lord  ha'  said  ev'ry 
feller — an'  wimmen,  too,  fur's  that  be — ha'  got  to  die  onct, 
same  as  Christ  did.  Second  time  Christ  comes,  he  hain't 
got  no  blood,  an'  he  can  live  all  them  four  hundred  and 
thirty-four  years  it'll  take  to  git  the  hull  twelve  tribes  o' 
Israel  together  agin  at  Jerusalem.  So  w'en  them  scart  Isra- 
elites ha'  thrun  him  overboard,  the  Lord  jest  draws  him 
right  up  to  His  throne  on  one  o'  them  worlds  ye  see  at  night. 
Arter  that,  the  'Syrian  feller  air  goin'  to  make  them  scart 
Israelites  wish  they  ha'  died  afore  they  ever  seed  daylight." 

"What  makes  them  scared,  Mr.  Evans." 

"Wall,  ye  see,  thar's  goin'  to  be  a  lot  o'  other  fellers 
all  over  the  world  w'at'll  claim  they  be  the  real  Christ,  an' 
thar'll  be  millions  o'  fellers — an'  wimmen,  too,  fur's  that  be 
— who'll  b'lieve  they  air.  Thar'll  be  a  lot  o'  the  nashuns  o' 
the  world  w'at'll  think  Jesus  air  a  humbug,  an'  they'll  git 
their  armies  together  an'  assiege  agin  him  in  Jerusalem. 
W'en  they  ha'  compassed  'round  the  city,  they  air  to  send 
word  to  the  Israelites  that  if  they  don't  turn  Christ  over  to 
'em  mighty  quick,  they'll  kill  'em  all.  O'  course  nobody  that 
be  followers  o'  Christ  ain't  goin'  to  have  weppins  o'  warfare, 
fer  the  Lord's  agin  war,  an'  He  ha'  sent  Christ  to  show  the 
people  o'  the  world  how  to  live  in  peace  and  never  have  to 
die.  Arter  the  'Syrian  feller  gits  them  scart  Israelites  to 
drive  Christ  out  o'  Jerusalem,  he  lets  in  the  big  fellers  o'  the 
armies,  and  they  air  to  'tread  down  the  people,'  it  sez,  'fer 
forty-two  months.'  This  air  to  be  w'at  the  Bible  sez  is  'the 


216  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

times  o'  the  gentiles.'  They  air  to  put  an  ornery  cuss  in  the 
Temple,  w'at  war  built  fer  the  Lord,  Hisself,  to  come  to; 
an'  ev'ry  feller  w'at  won't  call  him  the  Lord'll  be  kilt  right 
thar." 

"It  will  serve  them  right,  too,  I  think,  don't  you,  Mr. 
Evans?" 

"Wall,  Mis'  Swallow,  they'll  jest  be  payin'  the  price  o' 
.bein'  human  critturs,  that's  all.  Ev'ry  human  feller — an' 
wimmen,  too,  fur's  that  be — air  tolt  to  trust  the  Lord  to  git 
'em  out  o'  the  tight  places  o'  life,  an'  long's  they  don't 
b'lieve  w'at  the  Lord  sez,  they  air  goin'  to  keep  jest  human, 
like  any  animal.  That's  why  them  Israelites  air  goin'  to  git 
scart,  an'  swap  their  leader  for  a  'Syrian  who'll  kill  ev'ry 
feller  as  don't  b'lieve  he's  bigger'n  God,  Hisself." 

"I  should  think  they  would  all  say  they  believe, 
anyway,  rather  than  be  killed,"  said  Nancy,  rather  unethi- 
cally. 

Hank  paused  to  throw  a  derelict  shoe  at  a  cat  that  had 
caught  the  scent  from  a  package  of  meat  he  had  placed  on 
the  table  near  the  back  door  of  the  shop. 

"That's  'cause  they  be  religious,  Mis'  Swallow.  Beats 
all  w'at  a  human  bein'  '11  do  arter  they  git  religious  noshuns 
in  their  noodles — w'ether  it's  right,  or  w'ether  it's  wrong. 
They  git  the  idea  they  got  to  be  martyrs,  an'  die  fer  their 
b'lief,  w'ich  nigh  to  a  hundred  times  hain't  the  truth  a-tall. 
More  fellers  ha'  been  martyrs  count  o'  b'lievin'  some  lie 
'bout  w'at  God  ha'  said,  w'at  He  didn't  say.  Can't  think 
any  man  war  intended  to-be  kilt  'count  o'  religion.  'Bout 
half  the  religions  o'  the  world  air  sot  agin  the  others.  'Bout 
all  the  churches  think  on,  now-a-days,  air  hell  doctrin's,  an' 
savin'  souls  w'at  haint  to  be  'lowed  in  heaven  a-tall.  All  the 
Lord  ha'  ever  wanted  the  churches  fer,  war  to  git  the  twelve 
tribes  o'  Israel  back  together  agin,  so  the  kingdom  o'  heaven 


THE  RESURRECTION  217 

c'ud  ha'  come,  an'  ev'ryone  git  the  same  chanct  to  git  en- 
joyment out  o'  life." 

"When  will  that  big  Day  come,  that  you  were  going  to 
tell  me  about,  Mr.  Evans  ?"  Nancy  pursued,  a  little  confused 
by  Hank's  philosophical  argument. 

"Wen  that  'Syrian  feller  ha'  done  his  worst!"  said 
Hank,  with  emphasis,  sending  another  shoe,  with  no  better 
aim,  at  the  cat,  which  had  returned  in  another  flank  move- 
ment on  the  meat.  "Wen  he  ha'  got  them  Israelite  fellers 
to  b'lievin'  thar  hain't  no  more  hope  fer  'em,  then  suthin's 
goin'  to  happen,  quick!" 

"What?"  she  asked,  a  little  nervously. 

"Lord  God  o'  heaven,  Hisself,  is  goin'  to  come!"  said 
Hank,  dramatically. 

"Right  down  out  of  heaven?" 

"Yep.  'With  a  voice  like  the  Archangel,  an'  the  trum- 
pet o'  God,'  "  Hank  quoted,  as  best  he  remembered.  "Then, 
'cordin'  to  w'at  Paul  ha'  writ  to  the  Thess'lonians,  the  dead 
w'at  ha'  arsked  fer  glorified  bodies,  an'  them  as  air  livin', 
who  ha'  b'lieved  'bout  the  restorashun  an'  sech,  an'  air  at 
Jerusalem,  together  with  them  as  ha'  come  out  o'  their  graves, 
air  to  be  caught  up  to  meet  the  Lord  God,  Hisself,  in  the 
sky." 

"We  won't  be  livin',  then,  will  we?"  she  asked,  rather 
anxiously. 

"I  reckon  not,",  said  Hank,  grinning. 

"It  would  seem  awful  to  find  oneself  going  right  up  into 
the  sky,"  she  ventured. 

"Specially,"  said  Hank,  "w'en  the  Bible  sez  them  as 
go  up  air  to  'be  changed  in  a  twinklin'  o'  the  eyelid'  from  a 
body  w'at  ha'  got  blood  to  one  w'at  hain't." 

"So  that  is  the  Resurrection,"  said  Nancy,  disap- 
pointedly. 


218  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Not  by  a  jugfull!"  Hank  exclaimed,  throwing  his 
hammer  at  the  persistent  feline,  which  had  approached  the 
odoriferous  prize  from  another  point,  via  an  empty  pack- 
ing-case. The  hammer  found  its  mark  and,  with  a  spit 
and  a  yowl,  the  cat  rolled  off  the  box  to  the  floor. 

"Mon  Dicu!"  shrieked  Nancy,  leaping  from  her  chair, 
in  the  fright  which  the  feline  howl  and  her  mental  picture 
of  people  rising  skyward  from  opened  graves  gave  her. 
Then  she  laughed. 

"I  thought  the  Day  had  come,"  she  said. 

"Not  yit,"  he  said.  "That  cat  went  down  an'  out,  not 
up  an'  in,  like  folks'll  do  w'en  that  Day  comes.  Then 
suthin  else'll  happen."  Hank  paused  to  dig  up  another 
hammer  from  his  tool-box,  while  Nancy  glanced,  apprehen- 
sively, toward  the  rear  of  the  shop. 

"What?"  she  asked,  sitting  down  again,  on  the  edge 
of  her  chair. 

"Airthquake!" 

"Earthquake?" 

"Yep.  The  biggest  airthquake  the  world  ever  see. 
Swallers  up  all  them  armies  o'  the  nashuns  w'at  ha'  come 
agiu  Jerusalem.  Then,  arter  it's  all  over,  an'  all  the  enemies 
o'  Christ  air  buried  in  fire  an'  brimstun,  the  Lord  God  an' 
them  as  went  up  to  meet  him  in  the  sky,  come  down  on  the 
airth,  an'  to  the  big  Temple  w'at  ha'  been  built  fer  Him." 

"Doesn't  Christ  ever  come  back  anymore?"  Nancy 
asked,  credulously,  beginning  to  believe  in  the  reasonable- 
ness of  Hank's  recital,  and  that  it  all  "orter  be." 

"Sure,  he  comes,"  said  Hank,  after  he  had  critically 
measured  a  piece  of  soleleather  to  fit  a  very  large  shoe. 
"These  air  fer  Pat  Remnant,"  he  explained.  "Takes  most 
a  hull  cow  to  make  his  shoes." 


THE  RESURRECTION  219 

"I  should  think  it  would!"  Nancy  agreed.  "And  does 
Christ  come,  then?" 

"Wall,  I  ha'  read  suthin  that  Daniel  ha'  writ,  an' 
'cordin'  to  my  concepshun,  it'll  be  jest  forty-five  days  arter 
the  Resurrection  that  he  comes.  The  Lord  God  an'  Abra- 
ham an'  Jacob  an'  Moses,  an'  a  lot  o'  Bible  fellers  w'at  ha* 
been  great  fellers  fer  the  Lord's  work,  who  air  comin'  with 
the  Lord  God,  air  to  git  ready  a  big  barbecue,  with  wine  an' 
sech,  it  sez.  Wen  this  air  ready,  all  of  a  sudden  the  heavens 
open,  an'  down  comes  the  Lord  Jesus,  with  all  the  fellers 
— an'  wimmen,  too,  I  s'pose,  fur's  that  goes — w'at  ha'  been 
kilt  or  ha'  died  an'  gone  to  heaven  durin'  them  four  hundred 
and  thirty-four  years'  o'  restorashun.  They  air  all  to  be 
'in  w'ite  array'  like  the  angels,  it  sez.  Christ,  hisself,  is  to 
be  horseback,  on  a  w'ite  horse." 

"Mon  Dieu!"  said  Nancy,  realistically.  "I'd  like  to  see 
that!" 

"Ye'll  see  it,  Mis'  Swallow,  fer  ye're  goin'  to  be  thar," 
said  Hank,  reassuringly.  "Ye  jest  got  to  b'lieve  it,  an' 
want  to  be  thar." 

"I  wonder  how  it'll  feel  to  come  up  out  of  the  ground, 
alive,"  she  said,  meditatingly.  "Will  we  have  any  clothes 
on?" 

"Ye'll  be  one  o'  them  as  '11  come  with  the  Lord  God, 
Hisself,  mebbe,"  said  Hank,  reverently.  Them  as  come 
with  the  Lord  God,  don't  need  to  be  res'rected.  Anywise, 
it  don't  mean  jest  that  'bout  comin'  out  o'  the  ground.  Lots 
o'  fellers  hain't  in  no  graves  a-tall.  Some  war  sent  to  the 
bottom  o'  the  sea,  an'  some  on  'em  got  burnt  to  ashes. 
W'at  it  means  is,  that  the  spirits  o'  the  dead  w'at  ha'  jest 
got  through  by  the  skin  o'  their  teeth,  air  let  come  back,  an' 
air  give  new  bodies  o'  heavenly  flesh,  w'at  Paul  ha'  writ 
'bout." 


220  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"I'd  hate  to  be  resurrected  and  meet  some  persons  I 
never  want  to  see  again,"  said  Nancy,  as  she  arose,  took  up 
her  package,  and  moved  toward  the  door.  "You  don't  think 
everybody  will  be,  do  you,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Yep;  I  guess  so,"  said  Hank,  wishing  she  would  stay 
awhile  longer.  "I  haint  told  ye  all." 

"I'm  coming  again,  soon;  I  must  get  home  before  din- 
ner. Does  Mr.  Raines  know  all  about  the  Resurrection — 
and  these  things  you  have  told  me  ?" 

"I  reckon  he  does — 's  well  's  he  can  understand  arter 
learnin'  all  them  hell  doctrin's  o'  the  churches.  I  ha'  thought 
many  times  as  how  he  hain't  b'lievin'  jest  as  they  ha'  wanted 
him  to.  He  ha'  agreed  with  me  some  ways." 

"It  seems  as  though  it  ought  to  be  that  way,  but  I'm 
afraid  I  won't  be  there  when  that  Day  comes." 

"Ye'll  be  thar,"  said  Hank,  hopingly,  as  he  put  away  his 
tools  and  arose. 

"I  don't  think  I  will  be,"  she  answered,  with  the  ob- 
stinacy of  womankind.  "Good  by,  Mr.  Evans." 

"Come  agin,  Mis'  Swallow,"  he  said,  and  stood  in  the 
doorway  for  some  minutes,  watching  her  going  slowly  home- 
ward. Presently,  when  she  was  out  of  sight,  he  walked  over 
to  the  table  for  his  package  of  meat. 

It  had  disappeared. 

"Drat  that  cat !"  he  exclaimed.  Then  he  picked  up  his 
hammer  and  other  missies,  locked  up  his  shop  and  started  for 
the  butchershop. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 
A  CALL  FROM  THE  EAST 

The  next  day  a  message  came  from  New  England. 
The  mother  of  Dick  and  Martha  was  ill,  and,  if  they 
would  see  her  alive  they  must  hasten  east  without  delay. 
All  disturbances  in  the  domestic  atmosphere  calmed 
down  after  receipt  of  this  unexpected  news.  Ill-feeling 
changed  to  anxiety  for  the  mother  as  son  and  daughter 
prepared  to  set  out  upon  the  long  journey. 

Two  days  later  they  were  on  the  stage  for  The 
Dalles.  Laura  came  to  help  Nancy  look  after  Burke, 
who,  it  had  been  arranged,  would  take  his  meals  there. 

Burke  had  seemed  so  sincere  in  his  promise  to 
straighten  up  that  Dick  felt  less  concern  in  leaving  the 
store  in  his  care  for  the  time  he  expected  to  be  away. 
Burke's  relapse  into  habits  of  former  years  had  had  one 
result:  it  had  brought  the  other  to  realize  his  own 
responsibility. 

Channing  attended  regularly  to  business  during  the 
first  few  days;  after  that  he  could  be  found  every  night 
at  Skinner's. 

One  day  Nancy  met  Billy  Ki-Ki  at  the  store  door. 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  cried.  "I  want  someone  to  tell  me 
what  to  do.  I  hear  Burke  is  drinking  and  gambling,  and 


222  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

I  am  afraid  he'll  lose  everything,  and  what  Dick  has  in 
the  store,  too." 

Billy  was  thoughtful  a  moment. 

"You  go  inside.  I'll  come  back  in  half  an  hour,"  he 
said. 

When  he  returned  he  brought  Judge  Lattimer  with 
him.  They  called  Burke  behind  the  partition  and  after 
a  few  words,  Billy  came  out  and  handed  Nancy  a  bill 
of  sale,  conveying  to  Richard  Swallow  and  Nancy  Swal- 
low, his  wife,  all  right,  title  and  interest  in  the  stock  of 
merchandise,  fixtures,  accounts,  etc. 

The  next  day  the  sign  across  the  front  of  the  building 
was  changed  to  "Richard  Swallow  &  Co." 

Letters  came  from  the  East  telling  of  the  safe 
arrival  of  the  travelers,  of  the  hopeless  condition  of  the 
mother,  and  the  plan  to  bring  the  father  back  with  them 
to  Washington. 

Then,  one  afternoon,  word  came  that  all  was  over, 
and  they  planned  to  start  westward  within  the  coming 
week. 

The  night  before  the  expected  arrival,  after  closing 
the  store,  Burke  went  home.  He  lighted  a  candle  and, 
for  the  first  time  since  Martha's  departure,  went  through 
all  the  little  rooms,  even  into  the  parlor,  that  had  never 
been  opened  except  for  visitors.  The  furniture  was  care- 
fully wrapped  in  white  covering;  the  hanging  lamp  was 
draped  in  pink  mosquito  netting;  the  white  wax  flowers 
hung  down,  dejectedly,  in  their  black  frame,  all  giving 
the  room  a  ghostly  appearance. 

He  turned  from  the  part  of  the  house  that  had 
never  held  the  welcome  of  home  for  him,  and  went  to 
the  room  where  he  felt  more  at  ease  —  the  kitchen.  It 
was  not  in  the  orderly  state  that  had  been  his  wife's 


A  CALL  FROM  THE  EAST  223 

pride  to  see  it.  His  occasional  attempts  to  cook  for 
himself  had  the  usual  result  of  such  masculine  efforts. 

He  looked,  ruefully,  about  the  place,  familiar  and  dear 
from  long  associations.  Notwithstanding  the  petty, 
annoying  things  that  may  come  into  every-day  life,  still, 
through  the  years,  a  man  and  a  woman  may,  and  they 
should,  become  closely  knit  into  each  other's  lives.  They 
may  not  realize  this  until,  after  many  years  together,  they 
drift  apart.  And  when  a  man,  sitting  on  the  judicial 
bench,  utters  the  words  that  sever  the  legal  tie  between 
a  husband  and  wife,  he  may  unholily  put  them  asunder; 
but  it  takes  the  weary  drag  of  years  —  of  a  lifetime  —  to 
unwind  every  little,  clinging  tendril  that  had  put  out, 
from  each  to  the  other,  binding  them  together  in  a  bond 
no  human  decree  can  annul. 

Burke  snuffed  out  the  candle,  and  went  to  the  barn. 
He  led  out  his  cayuse,  mounted,  and,  giving  the  pony 
rein,  was  soon  galloping  south  in  the  shadow  of  the 
hills. 

He  passed  through  The  Gap,  and  along  the  river  some 
distance,  then  forded  the  stream  to  a  wooded  island, 
around  which  the  waters  spread  out  in  shallow  channels. 
He  tied  his  pony  to  a  sapling  near  the  bank  and  followed 
a  narrow  path,  through  the  thick  growth  of  underbrush, 
to  a  shanty  of  logs. 

This  island  rendezvous  was  just  off  the  reservation 
lands.  It  was  the  one  place  about  Old  Town  where 
the  Indians  —  those  who  could  be  trusted  —  could  get 
whiskey  by  paying  many  times  its  value. 

Here  he  paused  and  listened.  Through  the  one 
window  the  holes  in  the  heavy  paper  curtain  allowed  a 
few  rays  of  light  to  escape.  He  gave  two  distinct  raps. 


224  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

There  was  a  sliding  of  bolts,  the  door  was  pulled  back, 
and  he  entered. 

There  was  only  one  room,  large,  and  lighted  by  two 
or  three  tallow  candles  on  a  broad  table,  around  which 
were  several  men,  gambling.  An  assortment  of  pipes, 
whiskey  flasks  and  money  was  scattered  about  on  the 
table,  in  such  confusion  it  seemed  only  by  intuition  that 
any  of  the  players  was  able  to  put  his  hand  on  his  own 
property  when  called  on  to  join  in  a  drink,  or  take  a 
chance  on  the  turn  of  a  card. 

A  number  of  cowboys  and  Indians  were  sprawled  out 
in  chairs,  all  more  or  less  drunk. 

"Where's  Red  Eye?"  Burke  asked. 

"Gone  to  town,"  said  the  man  who  had  unbarred  the 
door.  "He  got  low  on  liquor."  He  nodded,  significantly, 
toward  the  Indians. 

Burke  sat  down  to  wait,  uneasily,  Red  Eye's  return. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 
"THEY  SHALL  NOT  HANG  \" 

Nancy  was  up  early  the  next  morning.  Dick  was  to 
be  home  on  the  coach,  and  the  house  must  be  in  holiday 
attire  for  his  reception. 

She  had  written  him  nothing  of  Burke,  fearing  to 
cause  him  unnecessary  worry. 

As  she  stepped  out  on  the  back  porch  to  whip  a 
dish  of  eggs  for  a  custard,  she  saw  a  team  of  horses 
tearing  up  the  road  from  the  South  Gap.  As  they 
came  nearer  she  saw  no  one  on  the  driver's  seat. 

"Laura!  Come  here,  quick!  There's  a  run-away!" 
she  cried. 

Men  and  boys  rushed  into  the  street,  as  the  team 
plunged  by,  the  light  wagon  bounding  from  side  to  side. 

The  two  women  watched  the  horses  turn  into  the 
main  street,  and  dash  up  to  the  doors  of  the  livery  stable. 

"It's  one  o'  Tupper's  teams,  the  one  the  engineers 
took  over  to  Ft.  Simcoe,"  said  Laura. 

The  crowd,  breathless,  reached  the  barn  just  as  a 
white-faced  boy  rose  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  wagon. 

"Indians!"  he  gasped.  "Shot  the  engineers!"  and  he 
sank  down  again. 

"It's  Alec  Lattimer,  and  the  lad's  hurt!"  cried  one 
of  the  men.  Someone  ran  for  the  doctor,  while  they  lifted 


226  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

the  boy  out  and  laid  him  on  a  blanket  on  the  barn  floor. 

"Where  ye  hurt,  boy?"  Tupper  asked,  looking  him 
over. 

"Don't  know  where,"  said  Alec,  crawling  to  a  sitting 
posture,  and  feeling  of  himself  in  a  dazed  sort  of  way. 
Then  he  got  up  on  his  feet. 

"  'Taint  me  what's  hurt.  It's  them  fellers  I  drove  to 
the  Reservation  —  them  engineers.  A  whole  lot  o'  drunk 
Indians  rode  inter  us  an'  begun  to  shoot.  Some  o'  the 
men  fell  out,  and  t'others  climbed  out  behind  when  the 
horses  started  to  run.  I  hung  on  to  the  lines,  I  did,  and 
brought  'em  in." 

This  aroused  some  of  the  men  to  action.  The  engi- 
neers were  back  on  the  trail,  wounded,  perhaps  massa- 
cred. Something  must  be  done  at  once. 

News  of  the  shooting  quickly  spread  through  the 
village.  Some  of  the  men  started  back  over  the  trail  on 
their  ponies,  followed  by  a  wagon,  rigged  into  an  ambu- 
lance. Those  who  remained  undertook  to  get  a  connected 
story  of  the  attack  from  young  Lattimer. 

The  engineering  party  had  left  Ft.  Simcoe  at  day- 
break. When  within  a  few  miles  of  the  South  Gap  they 
saw  a  band  of  Indians  approaching,  swaying  from  side 
to  side  on  their  ponies,  waving  their  arms  above  their 
heads  in  a  slow,  rythmic  movement  peculiar  to  a  drunken 
siwash.  As  they  neared  the  wagon,  they  drew  their 
revolvers  and  began  firing  in  the  air.  Then  they  rode 
wildly  on. 

Excitement  in  the  village  had  now  become  intense. 
A  posse  was  organized  to  go  in  pursuit  of  the  Indians 
and,  if  possible,  overtake  them  before  they  reached  their 
homes  at  the  Reservation. 

About  two  hours  later  the  returning  ambulance  could 


"THEY  SHALL  NOT  HANG!"  227 

be  seen  slowly  bearing  in  the  wounded  engineers.  The 
mounted  men,  with  the  exception  of  Judge  Lattimer,  had 
gone  on  with  the  posse.  He  came  in  ahead  of  the 
wagon,  bringing  word  that  only  one  of  the  engineers 
had  been  shot,  while  another  had  broken  a  leg  in  jumping 
from  the  wagon. 

The  posse  found  the  Indians  in  Parker  Bottom,  ter- 
rorizing the  ranchers,  riding  in  wild  dashes  almost  up 
to  the  doors,  waving  their  revolvers  and  yelling  fiend- 
ishly. They  were  completely  awed,  however,  by  the 
force  of  their  pursuers  and,  surrendering  their  firearms, 
they  were  taken  back  to  Old  Town  and  locked  up  in 
the  "skookum  house." 

Then  came  a  number  of  discoveries,  which  raised  the 
Western  blood  to  fever  heat.  Burke  Channing  was  miss- 
ing. No  one  had  seen  him.  His  store  had  not  been 
opened. 

A  visit  to  the  house  found  the  back  door  unlocked, 
but  no  evidence  that  he  had  passed  the  night  there.  The 
stable  was  open,  and  his  pony  gone.  About  the  same 
time,  someone  said  that  a  revolver,  in  possession  of  one 
of  the  Indians,  had  Burke's  name  scratched  on  the  barrel ; 
while  almost  in  the  same  breath  came  the  cry  that  Burke's 
cayuse  was  among  the  ponies  ridden  by  the  siwashes 
when  captured. 

"Burke  Channing  has  been  murdered  by  the  Indians!" 

The  word  passed  from  lip  to  lip,  the  men  repeating 
it  in  hoarse  tones  to  the  women,  who  had  come  into  the 
street  and  were  in  the  midst  of  the  excited  throng. 

Meanwhile  the  sheriff  was  trying  to  get  the  prisoners 
to  explain  how  they  came  in  possession  of  Channing's 
property;  also,  to  tell  something  that  might  throw  light 
on  the  missing  villager. 


228  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

The  Indians  had  not  spoken  a  word  thus  far,  and 
to  each  question  they  maintained  a  stolid  silence. 

Outside,  the  villagers  had  begun  to  gather  about  the 
lockup,  muttering  and  threatening.  Some  of  the  cowboys 
were  flinging  their  lariats  in  the  air  and  yelling,  "Bring 
'em  out!  Bring  'em  out!" 

Hank  Evans  went  among  them,  trying  to  calm  the 
hot-headed  ranchers.  Old  Luke  Waters  limped  around, 
chewing  hard  on  his  quid  of  tobacco,  talking  in  a  loud 
voice,  saying,  "The  engineers  air  to  blame  fer  the  hull 
damned  thing."  Nearly  everyone  was  there  except  Billy 
Ki-Ki  and  Jim  Crawley.  The  latter  was  up  on  his  wind- 
swept ranch. 

Yells  arose,  now,  from  the  infuriated  mob. 

"Hang  'em!" 

"String  'em  up !" 

"Break  in  the  door!" 

The  sheriff  opened  the  door,  stepped  outside  and 
locked  it.  He  tossed  the  key  back  into  the  jail  through 
a  broken  window.  Then  he  stood  on  a  box  and  attempted 
to  address  the  crowd.  The  next  moment  he  was  pulled 
down,  pretended  a  slight  resistance,  and  meekly  allowed 
himself  to  be  subdued. 

Nancy  stood  among  the  women  and  children,  dazed, 
watching  the  men  battering  at  the  door  of  the  jail.  Cry- 
ing children  clung  to  their  mother's  skirts.  Dogs  barked, 
and  a  hundred  curs  mingled  their  yelps  with  the  curses 
of  the  men. 

Suddenly  the  mob  fell  back.  There  was  a  lull  in  the 
storm  as  big  Joe  Murphy,  the  wagonsmith,  and  "Boney" 
Carroll,  the  butcher,  pushed  through  the  crowd,  jerking 
the  three  swarthy  victims  by  as  many  lariats  looped  tight 
around  their  necks. 


"THEY  SHALL  NOT  HANG!"  229 

This  sight  brought  Nancy  to  a  realization  of  what 
the  scene  meant.  She  clutched  at  the  arm  of  Parson 
Raines,  who,  vainly,  had  been  trying  to  get  her  to  go 
home. 

"What  are  they  going  to  do?  Oh,  look!  Are  they 
going  to  hang  them?" 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  he  answered,  trying  to  speak  calmly. 

"Don't  let  them  do  that!  Oh,  how  can  you  stand 
here  and  see  them  hang  these  poor  fellows?  They  shan't 
do  it!"  Nancy,  flushed  with  excitement,  started  toward 
the  mob.  With  difficulty  Raines  held  her. 

"Let  me  go !"  she  cried,  trying  to  tear  away  from  him. 
"I  shall  stop  it.  Let  me  go !"  But  he  would  not  loosen 
his  hold. 

"Oh,  you  coward !"  she  burst  out.  "Is  this  your  Chris- 
tianity? Oh,  if  Billy  were  here!  He  would  stop  them!" 

Raines  became  very  pale.  He  relaxed  his  grip  on  her 
arm  and  drew  himself  up.  For  just  a  second  his  eyes 
blazed  into  hers. 

"He  is  not  here,"  he  said.  "But  they  shall  not  hang." 
Turning  away,  he  walked,  with  long  strides,  toward  the 
mob. 

They  had  led  the  siwashes  under  the  big  frame  of 
beams,  next  to  the  butcher  shop,  where  the  day  before 
had  hung  the  slaughtered  carcasses  of  three  great  steers. 
The  ground  beneath  was  black  from  the  dripping  of  the 
animals'  blood.  On  a  block  at  one  side  was  a  cleaver, 
still  unwashed,  and  on  the  ground  a  blood-stained  knife. 

Raines  pressed  through  the  throng,  and  stood  close 
to  the  improvised  scaffold. 

The  leader  of  the  mob  was  trying  to  get  a  confession 
from  the  Indians,  but  they  stood,  silent  and  indifferent, 
beneath  the  beam,  while  the  harsh  lariats  around  their 


230  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

necks  were  drawn  through  the  meat  hooks  above.  Their 
arms  had  been  pinioned,  and  men  stood  with  the  ropes 
in  hand,  ready  for  the  signal  to  pull  them  up. 

Raines'  glance  fell  on  the  knife,  half  buried  in  the  dirt 
at  his  feet.  It  determined  his  course  of  action. 

"Just  a  moment,  men  of  Yahkima !"  He  leaped  upon 
the  meat  block,  and  raised  his  hand.  There  was  a  power 
in  his  tone  that  brought  all  eyes  toward  him.  Some  of 
the  men,  thinking  he  was  about  to  offer  prayer,  removed 
their  hats. 

"Men  of  Yahkima!"  he  cried.  "Before  God  it  is 
you  who  are  guilty  of  this  murder  —  not  these  poor 
creatures,  here.  And  God,  whose  home  is  there  in  yon 
heaven,  will  reckon  with  you  for  this  deed.  These 
unhappy  beings,  whom  you  would  hang  to  these  hooks, 
are  His  children.  They  are  your  brothers,  yours  and 
mine.  You  have  no  right  to  shed  a  brother's  blood.  The 
men  who  are  guilty  of  this  crime,  if  it  be  a  crime,  are  not 
these  men.  Those  who  put  into  these  men's  mouths  the 
accursed  liquor  that  steals  away  their  brains  —  they  are 
the  guilty  ones.  Go  find  the  men  who  gave  the  whiskey 
to  them !  Go  down  to  that  vile  den  yonder  in  the  river, 
and  you  will  find  the  wretches  who  should  bear  the  ropes 
you  have  put  around  these  necks.  Go,  and  find  there 
the  murderers  of  your  fellow  townsman,  if  he  be  dead. 
I  do  not  think  he  is:  Burke  Channing  may  be  there!" 

He  paused  a  moment,  his  arm  stretched  toward  the 
south. 

The  women  were  now  crowding  against  the  men, 
eager  to  hear  and  see  everything. 

Pointing  towards  Skinner's  saloon,  he  cried,  dramatic- 
ally, his  voice  holding  them  all  breathless: 

"Oh,  my  brothers,  look!     Do  you  not  see  the  gate? 


"THEY  SHALL  NOT  HANG!"  231 

There!  There!  It  is  there  all  these  foul  deeds  in  Old 
Town  find  their  birth !  There,  behind  those  doors,  where 
God  never  enters,  you  men  sell  your  manhood.  There 
you,  yourselves,  make  murderers  of  yourselves,  through 
cursed  drink,  and  then  come  forth  to  hang  these  men, 
seeking  to  cover  up  the  wickedness  of  your  own  hearts 
in  the  murder  of  these,  your  brothers !" 

There  was  an  impatient  murmur  in  the  crowd,  and 
the  men  who  held  the  ropes  moved  uneasily.  Raines 
raised  his  hands  again  for  silence. 

"But,  look!  Look,  again!  Do  you  see  the  Man, 
plodding  wearily  along  the  way,  bearing  the  Roman 
cross?  Do  you  see  the  cruel  thorns  piercing  his  brow? 
Listen  !  They  are  mocking  him,  now :  'Hail,  'King  of  the 
Jews !'  —  Look !  He  has  fallen !  Spears  of  soldiers  prick 
Him  roundabout !  He  rises.  He  staggers  on.  And  now 
the  multitude  cries  out  for  blood :  'Crucify  Him !  Cru- 
cify Him!'  Do  you  hear?  That  Roman  rabble  along 
the  road  to  Calvary,  cried  for  the  blood  of  Jesus,  just 
as  you  are  crying  for  the  blood  of  these  men,  your 
brothers.  Thou  shalt  not  kill!  Thou  shalt  not  kill! 
Do  you  hear  ?  It  is  that  same  God  who  is  calling  to  you 
now.  You  shall  not  stain  your  hands  with  the  blood  of 
your  fellowmen.  You  shall  not  hang  these  men !  I  say, 
you  shall  not  hang  these  men!" 

Holding  them  awed,  and  cowed,  he  stepped  from  the 
block  and  picked  up  the  knife.  Then  he  severed  the 
ropes  with  a  few  swift  blows. 

"Make  way!"  he  cried.  "Make  way!"  And  motion- 
ing to  the  Indians  to  follow,  he  led  them  through  the 
now  silent  mob,  back  into  the  "skookum  house." 

At  that  moment  there  was  a  loud  blast  of  a  horn,  and 


232  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

the  stage  coach  from  The  Dalles  came  rolling  up,  bring- 
ing home  the  travelers. 

The  crowd  began  to  disperse,  the  villagers  slinking 
back  to  their  work,  or  to  their  homes. 

Luke  Waters  remained  standing  on  the  roadside,  rub- 
bing his  hands  and  chuckling. 

"He  is  a  good  'un,  arter  all.  A  parson  what  is  a 
parson;  and  I'll  be  damned  if  he  aint!"  With  that  he 
limped  over  to  DeLand's  to  greet  the  new  arrivals. 

As  Nancy  went  to  meet  her  husband,  she  passed  close 
to  Raines,  who  had  stationed  himself  at  the  door  of  the 
jail. 

"Forgive  me,  Mr.  Raines,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"you  are  not  a  coward.  You  are  a  hero." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  his  glance  met  hers  with  a 
mute,  terrified  look.  The  human  element  in  his  nature 
had  only  been  quieted  all  these  years,  by  the  burden  of 
his  desire  to  help  others.  He  had  never  loved,  before. 
Now  he  was  awake.  Within  the  hour  he  had  come  to 
know  that  he  was  a  man  of  like  passions  as  other  men. 
He  also  knew  that  there  was  only  one  thing  to  do:  he 
must  go  away. 


CHAPTER  XXX 
"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH" 

"What's  going  on?"  Dick  asked,  looking  from  his 
wife  to  the  crowd,  scattering  in  every  direction,  as  he 
leaped  from  the  stage,  followed  by  Martha  and  their 
father,  the  Reverend  Obed  Swallow. 

She  put  a  finger  to  her  lips.  "After  while,"  she 
whispered. 

Martha  was  in  deep  mourning,  and  sympathetic  Nancy 
longed  to  throw  her  arms  around  her  neck.  Dick's  father 
had  taken  the  hand  of  his  daughter-in-law  and  pressed 
it  slightly;  then,  as  she  turned,  impulsively,  to  go  to 
Martha,  he  put  on  his  glasses  to  examine  her  more 
critically.  He  was  satisfied,  apparently,  for,  as  she  looked 
back  and  caught  his  eye,  he  went  up  to  her  and,  taking 
her  in  his  arms,  kissed  her  forehead. 

Dick  had  sought  an  explanation  of  the  unusual  scene, 
but  he  saw  by  the  suppressed  excitement  of  the  men  that 
something  was  held  back. 

"Get  into  the  coach,  everybody.  Nick,  we'll  ride  up 
to  our  house."  Nancy  thought  best  to  get  away  as  soon 
as  possible  from  the  crowd. 

"I'm  going  to  the  store,"  Martha  spoke  up,  taking 
Elizabeth  Jane  by  the  hand. 

Oh,   Dick,  tell  her!     Burke  isn't  there.     We   don't 


234  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

know  where  he  is.  He  wasn't  home  all  night,  and  they 
think  —  they  —  oh,  please,  Martha,  get  into  the  stage 
and  come  home  with  us.  Laura  will  have  dinner  all 
ready  — " 

"Go  on,  father,  if  you  wish.  I'm  going  to  find 
Burke."  Martha  started  towards  Skinner's  saloon. 

"Oh,  Dick,  don't  let  her,"  said  Nancy.  "He's  not 
there.  Go  and  tell  her  —  take  her  home  —  for  they  say  — 
they  think  Burke  has  been  killed."  She  whispered  the 
words  in  her  husband's  ear,  and  pushed  him  away.  Half 
dazed  he  hurried  after  his  sister. 

Nancy  followed  the  elder  Swallow  into  the  coach,  and 
Nick  drove  them  on. 

They  had  all  been  too  much  occupied  to  pay  any 
attention  to  a  short,  plump,  little  woman,  with  a  bonnet 
that  was  a  veritable  flower  garden  above  a  startling 
array  of  cork-screw  side  curls,  who  had  alighted  from  the 
coach  and,  seating  herself  on  a  trunk  that  came  with 
her,  was  scrutinizing  every  man  in  sight.  She  was  dis- 
appointed; for,  singling  out  Luke  Waters,  she  went  up 
to  him  and  courtesied. 

"Please,  sir,  do  you  know  Jim  Crawley,  sir?  A  man 
w'at's  been  'ere  nigh  on  to  a  year  or  abouts?" 

"Well,  I  guess  so,"  answered  Luke.  "Be  you  his 
sister?" 

The  little  woman  blushed. 

"No,  sir,  thankee ;  not  as  yet,  sir.  That  is  to  say,  I'm 
his  wife  w'at  is  to  be  sir.  'E  don't  know  as  'ow  I  took 
the  notion  to  come,  suddint  like,  an'  don't  know  as  'ow 
I'm  'ere." 

"Ye  don't  tell  now!"  exclaimed  Luke,  taking  her 
hand  and  shaking  it  heartily.  "Ye  be  Betty,  as  I've 
hearn  tell  of,  an'  who  ain't?  He'll  be  durned  glad  to  see 


"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH"  235 

ye,  now,  fer  it's  lonesome  fer  Jim  on  his  old  ranch.    Well, 
well.    Cn  ye  ride  a  horse  Mis',  Mis' — " 

"Betty  Wackett,  sir.  Miss  Betty  Wackett,  w'ose 
father  were  Timothy  James  Wackett  of  the  Black 
Rooster,  Shelby  Road,  Crumbshire,  England." 

Having  delivered  hereself  of  this  introduction,  she 
courtesied  twice. 

"C'n  ye  ride,  Mis'  Wackett?"  asked  Luke,  again,  "Jest 
an  'onary  plug  of  a  cayuse,  w'at  come  from  now'ere 
pertic'lar." 

"Lor'  bless  me,  sir,  w'at  a  question!  It's  Jim  Crawley 
I'm  wantin',  not  a  plug  of  a  kyoose,  w'atever  hit  may  be." 

"I  was  only  thinkin'  that  if  ye  c'n  ride  a  horse,  ye 
might  git  to  Jim  quicker'n  any  way.  For  he's  about 
five  mile  off,  an'  no  injine  an'  cars  as  yit! — not  as  yit!" 

"W'ere'll  I  be  gettin'  the  'orse? — if  ye  please,  sir — if 
I  can  ride,  as  one  might  say." 

"Easy  enough  I  reckon.  Joe,"  to  DeLand,  who  had 
been  standing  on  his  porch,  listening,  "w'ere's  yure 
cayuse  ?" 

"Mebbe  eef  I  take  my  vaggon,  w'en  Neek  'ee  com' 
back,  Neek,  'ee  can  drav'  la  madame,  an'  she  ees  ver' 
eesy." 

A  moment  later  the  problem  was  solved  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Crawley,  himself.  Luke  and  DeLand  had 
taken  Miss  Wackett's  trunk  into  the  hotel,  and  the  hotel 
man  had  gone  out  to  the  stable  to  hitch  up  his  pony.  As 
Luke  reappeared  at  the  front  door,  he  saw  Crawley  star- 
ing at  the  woman,  and  the  woman  returning  the  look, 
with  an  expression  of  injured  forbearance. 

"Ye'll  be  knowin'  me  w'en  we  meets  again,  sir!"  she 
exclaimed  scornfully,  "an'  w'ich  I  'ope  won't  'appen  soon, 
as  one  might  say."  Then  she  flounced  up  to  the  porch  as 


236  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

if  to  put  herself  under  old  Luke's  protection.  The  latter 
burst  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"Don't  ye  know  him?  Don't  ye  know  Jim?  Well,  I'll 
be  durned  if  ye  ain't  making  a  fuss  about  Jim  hisself! 
Jim,  this  is  Mis'  Wackett,  whose  father  war  the  Black 
Rooster  o'  somew'ere  or  t'other,  and  she  war  jest  'bout 
ready  to  start  out  to  yure  old  scab  patch." 

"Ceaser's  'ighways!"  Jim  shuffled  up  to  the  aston- 
ished little  woman.  "If  it  ain't  Betty,  sure  enough,  an' 
me  no  more  fortun'  'n  a  jack  rabbit." 

"Air  ye  sorry  I  come,  Jim?"  she  asked,  blushing  red 
as  she  let  him  hold  her  hand.  "If  ye  be,  I  can  go  back 
again,  Jim;  but  I  thought  as  'ow  ye  never  would  get  no 
fortun'  nohow,  an'  it  might  be  as  'ow  I  could  'elp  ye, 
Jim." 

As  she  said  these  words  in  a  low  voice,  something 
like  a  boyish  rapture  spread  over  the  red  face.  He 
ignored  the  presence  of  Luke  and  of  DeLand,  who  had 
brought  the  harnessed  pony  to  the  front,  and  took  the 
little  woman  in  his  arms.  Finding  her  lips  somewhere 
beneath  the  framing  curls  and  artificial  roses,  he  gave 
her  a  hearty  smack. 

"Ye'll  not  go  back  agin,  Betty,  sweetheart,  if  ye'll 
fergive  yure  old  fool  of  a  Jim,  w'at  orter  ha'  sent  for  ye 
years  an'  years  afore  this,  as  the  man  said  w'at  told  the 
story;  for  ye're  the  best  fortun'  that  a  man  may  want, 
better'n  gold  nuggets  nor  dimonts,  w'at  never  comes 
w'en  ye  wants  'em  most,  Betty.  But  ye  hav'  come  a 
long  ways  to  find  a  goodfornothink  cuss,  wit'  nothink 
but  a  scab  patch  for  a  'ome,  an'  honly  a  heagle  or  two 
put  by." 

"It'll  be  all  right,  Jim,"  she  whispered.    "I've  a  good 


"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH"  237 

bit   from   sellin'   the   Black    Rooster;   an'   we'll   not  go 
'ungry,  lad;  we'll  not  go  'ungry." 

"Ye  better  go  fer  the  parson!  Leastways  I  think 
it's  durned  near  time,"  said  Luke,  while  DeLand  grinned 
and  nodded.  "We'll  have  a  weddin'  'sted  of  a  lynchn/" 
he  continued,  "an'  I  reckon  the  parson  can  tie  a  knot, 
well's  he  can  cut  one."  Chuckling  at  his  joke,  the  old 
rancher  walked  down  the  street,  leaving  the  reunited 
lovers  to  work  it  out  for  themselves. 

"We'll  'ave  a  weddin',  an'  w'at's  more,  we'll  'ave  a 
bloomin'  supper,  too,  DeLand,  if  ye  can  fix  it  for  us ;  an' 
ye  can  set  cheers  for  Mister  an'  Mis'  Swallow,  an'  Doc 
Kimball,  an'  Mis'  Kimball,  an'  for  Billy  Ki-Ki  an'  Luke, 
an'  a  few  for  hover  measure,  as  the  baker  said."  Then 
he  gave  Betty  his  arm,  and  they  started  for  the  parson- 
age. 

"By  gar!  he  tak'  a  beeg  tarn  to  get  maree,"  DeLand 
said,  to  himself.  "An'  by  gar,  she  go  for  to  mak'  heem 
goot  femme,  I  tink.  Une,  deux — quartre — six,  sept — 
sept — "  counting  on  his  fingers,  "veil  I  mak'  heem  den 
plates."  With  this  computation,  he  hurried  inside  to 
advise  Madame  DeLand  of  her  part  in  the  celebration  of 
Crawley's  marriage  to  the  woman  who  had  been  wait- 
ing thirty  years. 

But  Betty  had  selected  an  inopportune  time  to  arrive ; 
for  most  of  the  invited  guests  were,  on  that  particular 
evening,  too  deeply  concerned  in  their  personal  tragedies 
to  participate  in  the  happiness  of  others. 

Dick  Swallow  had  hurried  after  Martha,  urging  her 
to  go  on  home.  His  thoughts  were  in  a  whirl,  and  he  was 
not  even  surprised  when  he  noticed  the  change  in  the 
firm  name,  across  the  store  front. 


238  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"They  say  Burke  went  away  last  night  and  hasn't 
come  back  yet,"  he  told  her. 

She  made  no  answer.  She  seemed  to  know  that  a 
great  trial  had  come  upon  her,  and  that  she  must  bear 
the  cross  as  became  a  Christian.  She  clutched  her  little 
girl,  tightly,  and  quickened  her  steps,  saying  to  herself 
over  and  over  again,  "Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He 
chasteneth." 

As  she  entered  the  kitchen  she  gave  no  thought  to 
the  confusion  of  tins  and  skillets  and  unwashed  dishes, 
nor  to  the  unswept  floor,  on  which  were  outlined  the 
footprints  of  those  who  had  gone  through  the  house, 
but  a  few  moments  before,  searching  for  Burke. 

"He  has  gone !  Yes,  he  has  gone.  He  will  not  come 
back.  I  know  it.  Go  on  home,  Dick,  and  tell  father  to 
come."  She  seemed  so  calm  that  Dick  wondered  if  she 
understood. 

He  feared  to  tell  her  what  Nancy  had  said — what  he 
could  not  believe  himself — that  Burke  had  been  killed. 
What  had  happened?  Why  were  all  the  villagers  out 
on  the  street  when  the  stage  coach  arrived,  and  why 
was  Raines  standing,  like  a  sentinel,  before  the  door  of 
the  lockup?  He  was  anxious  to  get  back  and  learn  what 
had  transpired. 

"Now,  Martha,  don't  worry  about  Burke.  He'll  be 
back  all  right.  I'll  come  over  with  father  as  soon  as 
I  can  learn  something."  He  hurried  away. 

Raines  was  still  in  front  of  the  jail.  Dr.  Kimball  and 
the  sheriff  were  talking  with  him.  In  a  few  words  they 
told  Dick  what  had  taken  place. 

"I  don't  think  a  murder  has  been  committed,"  said 
the  parson.  "It  is  my  opinion  we  shall  hear  from  Burke 
soon." 


"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH"  239 

"Perhaps  Swallow  can  help  us  get  something  out  of 
these  siwashes,"  suggested  the  sheriff. 

The  imprisoned  Indians  were  well  known  to  Dick. 
They  had  been  frequent  customers  at  the  store.  The 
experience  of  the  day  had  completely  sobered  them ;  and 
when  the  "skookum  man,"  as  they  were  in  the  habit  of 
calling  Dick,  began  to  question  them,  they  broke  their 
silence.  One  of  them  spoke  a  mixture  of  English  and 
Chinook. 

"Skookum  Burke  he  come  to  chuck  house  (river 
house),"  he  began.  "He  wait  for  Red  Eye.  Red  Eye 
come  with  heap  lum  (whiskey).  Skookum  Burke  say 
want  chickamin  (money).  Red  Eye  not  give.  Is  heap 
solleks  (mad).  Skookum  Burke  take  Indian  pony. 
Think  huy  huy  (trade).  Indian  much  kwan  (glad)  — 
get  pathtlum  (drunk) — heap  mesahchie  (bad  man) — no 
want  shoot." 

"How  get  tohum  poo  (revolver)  ?"  asked  the  sheriff. 

"Skookum  Burke  take  Indian  saddle — leave  tohum 
poo,"  the  spokesman  explained,  while  his  companions 
nodded  and  gesticulated,  in  confirmation. 

The  sheriff  believed  the  siwashes.  Their  explanation 
seemed  logical.  Burke,  not  getting  the  money  from  Red 
Eye,  had  gone  off,  rather  than  face  his  partner,  who,  the 
keen  mind  of  the  sheriff  figured  out,  would  find  business 
in  bad  shape.  Then,  too,  as  he  thought  of  it,  Burke  had 
wanted  a  saddle,  and  not  wishing  to  take  either  his  own 
pony  or  saddle,  which  would  be  a  clue  to  his  identifica- 
tion, he  had  made  the  trade  as  the  Indians  said. 

"Now,  that  it  is  found  the  engineer,  who  was  shot,  is 
not  dangerously  wounded,"  said  Raines,  "it  is  your  duty, 
Mr.  Sheriff,  to  take  the  prisoners  to  Ft.  Simcoe,  and  de- 
liver them  to  the  government  authorities.  The  shooting 


240  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

occurred  on  the  Reservation  lands,  and  they  should  be 
tried  by  Father  Wilbur." 

"They  shall  go  to-night,"  the  sheriff  assured  him ;  and 
the  parson  walked,  slowly,  homeward. 

He  felt  strangely  unlike  himself,  conscious  only  of 
one  thing;  that  a  dull  pain  had  come  into  his  heart.  All 
that  had  happened — what  he  had  said  and  done,  as  a  part 
of  the  dramatic  hour  that  had  just  passed,  seemed  more 
like  something  he  had  read.  One  thing  was  real:  He 
had  been  a  murderer  in  the  sight  of  God!  At  one  mo- 
ment, in  that  dreadful  hour,  he  had  felt  the  pangs  of  a 
fearful  jealously,  and  could  have  killed  the  man  for 
whom  Nancy  Swallow  had  called,  when  she  needed — 
when  Old  Town  needed  a  hero ! 

Dick  went  home,  assured  that  Burke  had  not  been 
killed.  Then,  with  his  father,  he  returned  to  Martha. 

They  found  her  in  a  state  of  wild  hysteria,  alternately 
screaming  and  calling  for  her  husband,  refusing  to  be 
comforted  by  the  neighbor-woman,  who  had  blundered 
in  with  the  report  of  what  the  villagers  were  saying. 

Dr.  Kimball  was  hastily  summoned,  and  with  the  aid 
of  his  wife,  the  distracted  Martha  was  put  to  bed  and 
quieted  with  a  strong  opiate. 

"I  am  afraid  we  are  to  have  a  very  sick  woman  here," 
said  the  doctor,"  and  she  will  need  the  best  of  care. 
God's  ways  are  often  mysterious,  but  I  believe  He  has 
brought  about  this  opportunity  to  reunite  these  sisters." 

"Pray  God  that  it  may  be  so !"  exclaimed  the  father, 
fervently. 

"Nancy  will  come  and  take  care  of  her,"  Dick 
answered. 

So  Nancy  came.  All  that  night  she  sat  by  Martha's 
bed,  keeping  her  under  the  quieting  influences  of  medi- 


"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH"  241 

cines.  And  through  the  night  Martha,  in  her  half-wake- 
ful moments,  would  repeat  over  and  over,  or  in  wild  de- 
lirium scream  out,  "Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chas- 
teneth !"  And  during  the  days  of  burning  fever  that  fol- 
lowed, the  aged  father  daily  offered  up  prayer  for  his 
daughter's  recovery,  never  omitting  to  conclude  with: 
"But,  thy  will  be  done,  O  God;  not  our  will;  for  we 
know  thou  afflictest  thy  children  and  doth  bring  these 
trials  upon  them,  that  they  may  know  better  thy  love, 
thy  mercy,  and  thy  deliverance." 

Nancy  wondered,  and  held  her  baby  closer,  fearing 
that  a  little  of  the  love  of  this  strange  kind  of  a  God 
might  be  given  to  her,  or  to  the  precious  one  at  her 
bosom,  bringing  to  them  some  like  affliction,  or  disease, 
or  death. 

There  was  one  bit  of  relief  that  came  to  Dick  in  his 
trouble.  "Red  Eye"  had  disappeared.  Evidence  had  not 
been  wanting  to  show  that  he  had  been  supplying  whisky 
to  the  Indians;  and  the  villagers  were  thoroughly 
decided  to  visit  punishment  on  him,  now  that  the  three 
siwashes  had  escaped — if  they  could  get  him. 

Dick  went  about  in  dreamy  sort  of  way,  doing  his  best 
to  straighten  out  the  accounts  at  the  store.  He  had 
found  no  money  in  the  safe,  but  as  there  were  but  few 
unpaid  bills,  he  had  no  worry  from  that  source. 

No  word  came  from  Burke  the  next  day,  nor  the  day 
following.  The  third  day,  Dick  received  a  letter  ad- 
dressed to  the  firm,  from  a  banking  house  at  The  Dalles. 
A  note  for  a  large  amount  given  by  Channing  and  Swal- 
low, would  fall  due  in  three  days,  it  read. 

He  knew  nothing  of  such  a  transaction,  nor  was  he 
aware  that  the  firm  had,  at  any  time,  borrowed  money. 
He  took  the  letter  to  Nancy.  In  these  days  of  new  re- 


242  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

sponsibilities,  he  was  beginning  to  lean  on  her ;  and  she, 
careless,  untutored,  untrained  child  that  she  had  ever 
been,  was  becoming  a  practical,  quick-discerning  woman. 

That  afternoon,  Dick  was  on  his  way  to  The  Dalles. 
The  store  was  left  in  care  of  Judge  Lattimer  and  his  boy 
Alec,  the  latter  having  been  previously  employed  by  the 
firm. 

The  same  evening,  old  Luke  Waters  limped  up  the 
walk  to  the  back  door  of  the  Channing  home,  to  see 
Laura,  who  had  come  over  to  help  in  the  housework. 
Nancy  was  alone,  on  the  back  porch. 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Waters,"  she  said,  making  room  for 
him  on  the  step.  "You've  not  been  to  see  us  for  a  long 
time." 

He  sat  down,  and  looked  off  unsociably  to  the  hills. 
Luke  had  become  restless  over  the  rumored  influx  of 
settlers  in  the  Valley. 

"But  it  won't  stop  'em!  he  broke  out,  abruptly,  con- 
tinuing his  thoughts  aloud.  "No,  it  won't  be  no  lesson 
to  'em.  The  whites  can't  never  learn  nothin'.  The  more 
they're  fit  out,  the  more  they're  sot  on  gittin'  in.  The 
railroad's  comin',  I  can  see  that:  an'  after  the  durned 
engineers  git  the  railway  through,  next  thing,  we  got  to 
be  made  a  State.  Politics  '11  bring  a  lot  o'  slick  thieves 
here,  who'll  be  lookin'  fer  a  new  stompin'  ground.  East- 
ern fellers  w'at  can't  make  a  livin'  honest,  will  hike  out 
here  to  spec'late.  Stores,  saloons,  churches,  schools,  '11 
be  goin'  full  blast." 

"But  that  is  civilization,  Mr.  Waters,"  ventured 
Nancy.  "Don't  you  want  to  see  those  things  coming 
here  which  will  give  us  more  pleasures  in  life?" 

"Civ'lization !"  snorted  Luke,  jerking  his  teeth  sav- 
agely through  a  plug  of  tobacco.  "A  bastard  child  o'  the 


"WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH"  243 

devil  and  the  church!  The  more  civ'lization  a  country 
gits,  the  more  laws  an'  jails  an'  penetentiaries  an' 
churches  it  needs.  Allus  works  that  way.  Women  '11  be 
busy  makin'  hats  an'  dresses  an'  fixin's.  Won't  have  no 
time  to  ride  with  their  men ;  an'  they'll  all  be  lookin'  fer 
the  feller  with  the  most  ponies  'stead  o'  the  one  they 
liked  best  to  ride  with.  Then  thar'll  be  divorce  courts." 

"But  we'll  still  have  the  hills,  and  the  mountains,  and 
the  rivers ;  and  there'll  be  lots  of  room  in  the  other  val- 
leys," suggested  Nancy,  reassuringly. 

"What  '11  thar  be  left,  when  them  Easterners  get  to 
dividin'  up  the  hull  valley,  an'  fencin'  in  the  hills?  There 
won't  be  no  range  here  long,  I  can  tell  you ;  nor  no  cow- 
boys neither.  Billy  Ki-Ki  and  Bronson  '11  be  big-bugs, 
an'  you'll  have  to  look  up  to  'em.  There'll  be  po'r  people 
an'  rich  people,  an'  high  an'  low  classes  in  Old  Town. 
Who'll  be  to  blame?  The  Easterners,  I  say,  damn  'em! 
An'  I'm  mighty  glad  I've  lived  afore  its  day." 

Luke  rose  to  go. 

"Wait,  Mr.  Waters,  and  have  supper  with  us,"  Nancy 
urged.  But  he  did  not  seem  to  hear,  and  went  toward  the 
gate,  muttering  to  himself,  forgetful  of  the  errand  that 
had  brought  him. 

After  three  days  Dick  returned.  He  told  Nancy  the 
result  of  his  trip.  It  took  her  but  a  moment  to  decide 
what  should  be  done. 

"Sell  the  store,  Dick.  We'll  have  the  ranch,  and  our 
stock  on  the  range.  We'll  have  each  other;  and  we've 
got  little  Maidie.  We'll  get  along,  somehow.  Only,  we 
must  save  Burke's  name,  for  Martha's  sake." 

A  few  days  later  the  villagers  were  surprised  to  learn 
that  the  business  had  been  sold  to  a  man  who  had  re- 


244  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

cently  come  from  the  coast.  After  the  sale,  Dick  took 
another  trip  to  The  Dalles. 

Martha  was  past  the  critical  stage  of  her  illness,  and 
Nancy  was  able  once  more  to  give  attention  to  her  own 
home.  Dick  found  her  there  on  the  evening  he  returned. 
He  showed  her  the  note  to  which  Burke  had  signed  the 
firm's  name  to  obtain  money  to  pay  his  losses  to  the 
gamblers.  There  was  also  another  note  that  Dick  showed 
his  wife,  one  that  bore  the  name  of  William  Carruthers, 
and  which  had  been  held  as  collateral  to  the  other;  then 
he  held  it  to  the  flame  of  the  candle. 

"Billy  will  never  need  know?"  she  asked. 

"Only  you  and  I  know — and  Burke.  If  we  could  only 
tell  him  that  it's  all  right,  he  would  come  back ;  but  I'm 
afraid  he  will  never  let  us  hear  from  him." 

"We  must  find  him,  Dick.  We  must  get  him  back 
for  Martha,  and  for  Elizabeth  Jane.  Poor  Martha !"  She 
glanced  toward  the  little  crib  in  the  corner,  and  crept 
into  her  husband's  lap. 

"I'm  glad  her  God  don't  love  me,  Dick,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 
"SIDE  PARTNERS  OF  THE  DEVIL" 

"Laura,"  said  Nancy,  one  morning,  "will  you  please 
take  Dick's  slippers  over  to  Mr.  Evans'  shop  and  have 
them  stretched?  He  can  do  it  while  you  wait." 

Hank  was  busy  sewing  buckles  on  a  boy's  dog- 
harness.  He  put  his  work  aside,  looked  the  slippers 
over  critically,  and  began  a  search  for  the  proper  tool. 

"Sit  down,  Laury,"  he  said.  "By  the  time  I  git  this 
dog  fixin'  for  the  Gower  boy  done  ye  can  take  'em  back 
with  ye.  How  be  Mis'  Channing  gittin'  on?  I  hear  she 
be  gittin'  her  senses  back." 

"She  haint  had  more  sense  than  the  law  'lowed  long 
afore  this  trouble  come,"  said  Laura,  whose  resentment 
for  Martha's  attitude  toward  Nancy  still  outweighed  her 
sympathy.  "Burke  Channing  haint  dead,  anymore  'n 
I  be." 

"The  parson  'peared  to  have  'bout  same  concepshun, 
an'  he  ha'  convinced  them  lynchin'  fellers  to  his  noshun, 
wit'out  much  argyment.  Some  cusses  air  too  quick  to 
pay  t'other  feller's  debt,  w'en,  like's  not,  they  be  owin'  a 
hull  lot  more  themselves." 

"That's  w'at  pa  said.  He  sez  w'en  a  man's  hollerin' 
for  a  rope,  ye  can  figger  out  he's  tryin'  to  vent  his  own 


246  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

brand.    Wat  right  has  any  man  got  to  say  another  man's 
got  to  die?" 

"He  haint  got  no  right,  Laury.  Life  ha'  been  a  gift 
from  the  Lord  to  ev'ry  man,  an*  to  ev'ry  woman;  an' 
'ta;nt  right  for  anyone  to  interfere  with  the  Lord's  work." 

"But  w'at  if  he  murders  someun,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  Laury,  Cain  ha'  kilt  his  own  brother,  Abel ;  but 
the  Lord  ha'  warned  all  men  not  to  tech  Cain,  an'  ha' 
put  a  mark  on  'im,  an'  sez,  'Wosoever  slayeth  Cain, 
vengence  shall  be  tuk  on  him  seven  times  more.'  I 
ha'  read  that  in  the  Bible  this  mornin',  Laury.  Then 
Cain  ha'  gone  to  'nother  place,  an'  ha'  married  a  woman 
w'at  war  come  from  them  other  races,  w'at  ha'  been 
here  long  afore  Adam ;  an'  he  ha'  built  a  hull  city.  Mebbe 
he  ha'  done  a  lot  o'  good  fer  them  pre-adamite  fellers, 
as  the  parson  calls  'em.  S'long's  a  feller's  got  his  life, 
he's  got  a  chance  o'  doin'  good  in  the  world,  an'  no  jedge 
or  jury,  or  gov'ner  ha'  got  a  right  to  take  that  chance 
away  from  any  feller." 

"But  that's  w'at  he  done,  Mr.  Evans  —  to  the  man 
he  kilt.  He  took  away  'nother  man's  chance." 

"Yes,  Laury,  he  did;  but  my  concepshun  is  that 
the  Lord  ha'  fixed  some  way  fer  the  feller  w'at's  robbed 
o'  his  life,  'thout  no  fault  o'  his,  so's  he  gits  his  chance 
jest  the  same,  somew'ere.  It's  the  Lord's  business,  an' 
no  man  's  got  a  right  to  kill  a  man  'cause  he  ha'  kilt 
someun  else.  Ye  might's  well  say  if  a  man  burns  down 
my  house,  the  law's  got  a  right  to  burn  his'n  down. 
Destructshun  haint  no  remedy  fer  destructshun,  w'ether 
it  is  life  or  property.  It  don't  bring  nothin'  back.  Might 
jest  as  well  say  Doc  Kimball  sh'ud  be  hung  'cause  he 
give  wrong  medicine,  an'  the  feller  died ;  or  some  o'  them 
doctors  w'at  performs  them  deadly  op'rashuns  at  the 


"SIDE  PARTNERS  O'  THE  DEVIL"          247 

'orspitals.  They  takes  away  a  man's  life  quicker'n  ye  can 
say  'scat'!  —  jest  practising  as  how  to  cut  up  a  feller." 
"Seems  Hike  a  person's  life  aint  worth  two  cents 
'cordin'  to  how  they  git  kilt  so  many  ways,"  said  Laura, 
soliloquizingly.  "Can't  be  thar  haint  some  way  to  make 
the  worst  o'  men  git  to  be  some  good,  like  ye  say  'bout 
Cain." 

"Anyhow,  'spose  Abel  ha'  had  a  wife  and  childrun.  I 
reckon  the  Lord  ha'  said  to  Cain,  'Ye  got  to  work  for 
that  widder,  Cain,  till  ye  git  her  an'  them  childrun  w'ere 
they'll  never  be  afeard  o'  poverty.'  Any  man  w'at  makes 
a  widder  an'  orphans  by  murder  can  be  made  to  help 
'em  balance  o'  his  life,  w'ich  air  somethin'  th'  jedge  and 
jury  don't  provide  for,  an'  mostimes  air  sot  on  makin' 
'nother  widder  an'  more  orphans  by  hangin'  the  feller." 

"'Spose  them  siwashes  'ud  been  hung,  Mr.  Evans? 
They  warn't  to  blame,  s'long's  they  had  that  whiskey 
in  'em.  Wen  a  man  does  wrong,  it's  mostly  owin'  to 
w'at  someun  else  ha'  done." 

"Ye  air  right,  Laury.  Ye  seed  them  big  critters  w'at 
war  ready  to  pull  them  ropes?  I  reckon  none  on  'em'd 
been  thar  if  the  law'd  worked  same  way  with  them,  fer 
things  they'd  done  afore  they  come  to  Old  Town.  Most 
ev'ry  feller  ha'  done  suthin  bad  'fore  he  grow'd  up  that 
some  jedge  'n  jury  'ud  hung  'im  fer.  I  never  war  agin 
the  law,  Laury,  but  I  reckon  if  all  the  jedges  an'  juries 
war  got  together  in  a  big  room,  w'ere  they'd  fixed  fer 
hangin'  some  po'r  cuss,  an'  the  Lord  war  to  come  in  an' 
say,  'Let  that  jedge  pull  the  rope,  w'at  ha'  never  done 
suthin'  he  c'ud  ha'  been  hanged  fer,'  I  reckon,  Laury, 
them  jedges  'ud  all  sneak  out,  like  them  old  Bible  cusses 
did,  w'at  wanted  to  stun  a  woman  to  death." 

"W'at  they  want  to  stun  her  fer?" 


248  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

''  'Cause  she  done  suthin'  agin  their  law  —  w'ich  they 
done,  themselves ;  only,  the  woman  warn't  give  no  right 
to  stun  the  men  fer  anythink,  no  matter  w'at  it  war." 

"How  c'ud  a  woman  stun  a  man  to  death?  She 
c'udn't,  Mr.  Evans.  I  jest  know  she  c'udn't —  makes  no 
matter  w'at  he  done.  Allwus  seemed  to  me  that  a  man 
w'at  'ud  do  wrong  can't  be  in  his  right  senses." 

"Now  ye  said  it,  Laury  —  jest  w'at  I  ha'  thought 
many  times.  Must  be  that  the  Lord  ha'  got  His  noshun 
o'  w'at  a  man  sh'ud  be,  an'  w'en  a  po'r  cuss  don't  come 
up  to  that  mark,  he  be  that  fur  out  o'  his  right  sense. 
Most  all  men  —  an'  women,  too,  fur  as  that  be  —  air 
more  or  less  looney;  an'  the  Lord  ha'  know'd  w'en  Cain 
ha'  kilt  Abel,  he  ha'  jest  slipped  a  cog,  fer  a  minnit, 
an'  war  pushed  to  do  it  by  suthin'  he  didn't  count  on. 
W'en  a  feller  gits  to  feelin'  like  killin',  or  stealin',  he's 
jest  got  a  disease  o'  the  devil,  an'  ye  can't  do  no  good 
fer  it  by  punishin'  the  feller  any  more  than  ye  can  stop 
measels  a  comin'  by  lickin'  the  youngun'  w'ats  got  'em. 
Seems  like  the  more  civil'zashun  gets  holt  o'  a  place,  the 
further  the  people  git  from  the  sense  the  Lord  ha'  wanted 
to  give  'em." 

"Looks  like  thar  will  allwus  be  someun  killin'  some- 
un,  Mr.  Evans." 

"Long's  they  make  weppins  fer  killin'  people,  thar'll 
be  murder.  Punishment  don't  stop  'em.  More  the  gov- 
er'ment  punishes  a  feller,  more  he'll  hate  the  fellers  w'at 
makes  the  laws.  Ev'ry  man's  a  crim'nal,  more  or  less, 
from  some  feller's  pint  o'  view;  only,  he's  got  to  git 
caught  at  it  to  tell  the  world.  If  a  feller  air  a  little  sot 
on  deviltry,  all  ye  got  to  do  to  make  him  a  crim'nal  air 
to  hunt  him  with  a  gun.  He  knows  the  fellers  w'at  air 


"SIDE  PARTNERS  O'  THE  DEVIL"          249 

wantin'  to  punish  him  an'  callin'  him  a  crim'nal,  jest  haint 
been  found  out  yit;  that's  all." 

"How  ye  goin'  to  stop  'em  we'ther  they  got  weppin's 
or  not,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Wall,  Laury,  'pears  to  me  thar  wouldn't  be  no 
hankerm'  to  kill  if  no  fellers  c'udn't  git  guns.  Only  way 
to  stop  crimes  air  to  turn  the  prisons  into  schools  an' 
give  the  Lord  a  chance,  'stead  o'  talkin'  about  punishin' 
on  'em.  More  ye  hear  men  or  wimmin  hollerin'  to  pun- 
ish some  po'r  crittur,  more  ye  can  figger  out  they,  their- 
selves,  haint  been  caught  at  their  own  deviltry — or  think 
they  haint." 

"Thar  don't  seem  to  be  any  way  to  stop  crimes,  Mr. 
Evans." 

"Thar  never  warn't  no  other  remedy  fer  crimes, 
Laury,  'cept  the  spirit'al  power  o'  the  Lord  God,  Hisself. 
The  thing  w'at  makes  a  man  a  crim'nal  air  a  spirit'al 
power  w'at  air  allus  here;  an'  the  only  thing  w'at  can 
change  human  natur'  from  a  hankerin'  to  do  things  w'at 
air  wrong,  air  a  spirit'al  power  w'at  '11  work  only  w'en 
it  air  asked  fer,  an'  arsked  fer  mighty  persistenlike, 
sometimes,  too." 

"W'o's  to  say  w'at  air  wrong  an'  what  haint,  Mr. 
Evans?  Sometimes  I  ha'  thought  a  man  jest  don't  know 
he's  doin'  w'at  haint  right." 

"My  concepshun  be,  Laury,  that  ev'ry  feller — an' 
ev'ry  woman,  too,  fur's  that  be — ha'  got  a  right  to  three 
things :  life,  an'  health,  an'  to  be  glad  he's  livin'.  Any- 
think  w'at  takes  from  him  any  o'  these  three  things  air 
doin'  suthin'  agin  the  purpose  o'  livin';  an'  w'at  inter- 
feres with  the  purpose  o'  life  air  wrong." 

"I  can't  see  w'at  anyone  lives  fer,  anyway,  Mr.  Evans. 
Pa  sez  it's  jest  one  damn  trouble  arter  another,  till  ye're 


250  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

glad  to  die.  Don't  seem  like  thar's  any  sense  o'  that.  I 
ha'  thought  thar  be  suthin'  more'n  that;  only  we  haint 
been  tolt  it  right." 

"I  ha'  thought  so,  too,  Laury.  It  ha'  seemed  to  me 
that  this  airth  be  jest  a  startin'  place  fer  us,  here.  An' 
the  more  wrong  things  w'at  we  must  rise  over,  air  w'at 
makes  a  feller  stronger.  But  thar  haint  no  sense  in 
havin'  to  git  stronger  an'  stronger  till  ye  die,  'less  ye  ha' 
got  to  rise  over  bigger  troubles  in  the  next  place  ye're 
goin'  to  live  fer  aw'ile.  I  ha'  noticed  that  older  a  man 
grows,  the  troubles  w'at  comes  air  harder  an'  harder  to 
rise  over,  an'  I  ha'  thought,  Laury,  the  greatest  feller 
w'at  ha'  lived  'count  o'  overising  the  things  w'at  ha'  come 
up  agin  him,  will  have  a  bigger  start,  in  the  next  life 
over  t'other  fellers  w'at  ha'  give  up  tryin'  to  overise  an' 
ha'  let  the  current  carry  'em  down  stream." 

Laura's  chin  rested  in  her  cupped  hand  for  a 
moment,  her  elbow  on  the  arm  of  the  chair,  as  she  looked 
off  toward  the  hills.  Presently,  with  a  deep  sigh,  she 
turned  to  the  shoemaker,  and  Hank  saw  a  strange,  wist- 
ful longing  in  the  girl's  eyes. 

"Do  ye  think,  Mr.  Evans,  we'll  git  a  chanct,  over 
thar,  fer  things  w'at  we  ha'  wanted  an'  wanted  more'n 
anythink  else?" 

"Yes,  Laury,  I  ha'  thought  so,"  he  answered,  in  a 
low  voice,  and  marvelled  at  the  quick  change  in  her 
expression. 

"I  can't  think  Mis'  Swallow  ever  did  anythink  wrong 
in  her  hull  life,  Mr.  Evans.  She  ha'  tolt  me  onct,  w'at 
a  bad  woman  she  be;  an*  it  warn't  nothin'  at  all  —  jest 
w'at  the  Lord  must  ha'  give  ev'ry  woman  to  think  'bout. 
Can't  be  w'at  a  woman  thinks  or  feels  that  makes  her 


"SIDE  PARTNERS  O'  THE  DEVIL"          251 

bad.  It's  w'at  she  does,  arter  knowin'  it  aint  right  to 
do  it." 

"That's  about  it,  Laury.  The  Lord  ha'  said  to  Cain, 
w'en  He  see  Cain  war  envis  o'  Abel :  'If  ye  do  well,  yure 
face  shall  lift  up;  but  if  ye  do  w'at  ye  know  air  wrong, 
then  sin  air  hidin'  behind  yure  door.  If  ye  don't  git  the 
upper  hand  o'  sin,  sin'll  git  the  rule  over  ye.' " 

"W'at  d'ye  think  is  sin,  Mr.  Evans?" 

"Mis'  Swallow  ha  'arsked  me  suthin'  like  that  onct. 
I  ha'  tolt  her,  'sin  be  mostly  a  pint  o'  view  o'  the  t'other 
feller,  who  aint  doin'  that  partic'lar  thing,  but  prob'ly 
doin'  suthin'  worse.'  My  concepshun  is  that  sin  is  w'at 
ye  feel  air  wrong,  arter  ye  done  it,  an'  not  w'at  some 
other  feller  thinks  'bout  it.  If  ev'ry  man  —  an'  woman, 
too,  fur  as  that  be  —  'ud  feel  same  way  'bout  makin'  the 
Lord  sorry,  as  ye'd  feel  'bout  hurtin'  yure  pa's  feelin's, 
the  devil  'ud  need  to  git  an'  hones'  job." 

"I  can't  b  lieve  in  any  sech  thing  as  the  devil !"  said 
Laura,  with  some  spirit. 

"I  reckon  he  don't  want  ye  sh'ud,  Laury  —  leastwise 
if  I  war  him  I'd  git  ev'rybody  to  think  thar  ben't  no  sech 
cuss." 

"I  haint  afeard  to  look  at  any  man  —  er  woman  — 
right  in  the  face,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"That's  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  meant  w'en  He  sez,  'Yure 
face  '11  be  lifted  up.'  Ye  can  tell  mostly  w'en  a  man 
knows  he  be  doin'  wrong.  His  face  be  pinted  at  the 
ground.  That's  mostly  'cause  he  didn't  b'lieve  thar  war 
sech  a  cuss  as  the  devil.  The  devil  'ud  hang  'round  till 
Tank'd  gittin  'to  feel  mad,  or  suthin',  then  he'd  say, 
'Tank,  ye  air  right.  That  feller  haint  fit  to  live.  Ye 
sh'ud  put  a  hole  in  'im.'  Then  Tank  'ud  up  an'  shoot. 
Arterward,  the  devil  'ud  keep  'im  skeert  to  look  up." 


252  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Ye  mean  Tank  Barlow?  I  war  thinkin'  o'  him,  too. 
He  allwus  looks  to  the  ground  w'en  he  meets  ye.  They 
tell  as  how  he  kilt  a  man  onct,  w'en  he  war  drunk." 

"Wall,  d'ye  know,  Laury,  Tank  ha'  tolt  me  he  never 
got  to  b'lieve  in  the  devil  till  he  heerd  Mis'  Swallow 
sing,  w'en  she  fust  come.  He  said  he  ha'  felt  like  he 
see  two  big  caves  'longside  in  a  mountain.  One  on  'em 
war  dark  blackness;  an'  t'other  war  full  o'  light  an' 
sunshine.  He  heerd  a  voice  w'ich  said,  'Ye  got  to  choose 
w'er  ye  goin'  to  die,  Tank.  Ye  can't  have  both  places.' 
He  ha'  tolt  me  that,  right  here  in  my  shop  the  next  day 
arterward.  Sez  I,  'Tank,  ye're  right.  Mebbe  ye  didn't 
hear  no  real  voice,  but  God  ha'  give  ye  a  streak  o'  wis- 
dom fer  a  minnit.  An'  it  war  yure  own  heart  arskin'  ye 
that.'  I  ha'  heerd  Tank's  been  a  diff'rnt  cuss  since  then, 
though  I  haint  seen  him." 

"That's  'cause  he's  been  on  Mr.  Carruthers'  ranch. 
Pa  says  Tank  haint  drunk  nothin'  since  that  day  Mis' 
Swallow  sung  in  church." 

"Billy  air  a  fine  man,  Laury.  He's  done  a  lot  o' 
good  'mong  these  cusses  'round  Old  Town.  I  reckon 
he's  had  to  lift  his  face  up  more'n  once  from  some  weight 
o'  trouble." 

"Oh,  he  has !  he  has !  Mr.  Evans.  I  know  he  has. 
W'en  he  war  at  Mis'  Swallow's,  gittin'  over  his  hurt,  he 
ha'  said,  onct,  right  out,  w'en  he  warn't  knowin'  nobody : 
'My  God !  My  God !  Help  me  fergive  her !  She  warn't 
to  blame!'  An'  he  kep'  sayin',  'She  warn't  to  blame!' 
I  knowd,  right  then,  some  woman  had  broke  his  life,  an' 
I  jest  wanted  to  do  suthin'  for  him.  But — but — " 

Hank  looked  up  from  his  work  to  see  Laura's  face 
go  into  her  hands,  her  fingers  striving  vainly  to  hold  back 
the  tears. 


"SIDE  PARTNERS  O'  THE  DEVIL"         253 

"That's  'cause  ye  be  a  woman,  Laury,"  he  said  softly. 
"The  Lord  give  women  jest  t'  help  a  man  lift  up  his  face 
w'en  suthin'  ha'  hit  'im  hard  fer  a  minnit.  Most  likely 
some  man  war  at  the  bottom  o'  it  all.  'Sposin'  thar  war, 
an'  Billy  ha'  kilt  'im  fer  it — like  some  fellers  ha'  done? 
Then  a  jedge  an'  jury  'ud  say,  'Ye  ha'  tuk  a  man's  life, 
an'  'cordin'  to  the  law,  by  man  shall  yure  life  be  tuk!' 
W'ere's  thar  a  jedge  or  a  jury  fit  to  say  Billy  Ki-Ki's 
got  to  die?" 

"Thar  aint!  Thar  aint!  Mr.  Evans,"  Laura  cried, 
wiping  her  eyes  on  a  sleeve.  "How'd  they  know  w'y  he 
did  it?  He  c'udn't  tell  —  'bout  a  woman." 

"No,  Laury.  The  takin'  a  man's  life  by  a  jedge  an' 
jury  is  jest  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  meant  w'en  He  writ,  'Thou 
shalt  not  kill!'  The  only  kind  o'  murder  in  the  fust 
degree,  like  they  say,  be  w'en  a  lot  o'  law  critters  git 
together,  thinkin'  nobody  don't  know  w'at  they  ha'  done 
sometime  or  'nother  fit  to  be  hanged  fer;  an'  they  say 
to  the  feller  w'at  ha'  kilt  someun',  all  in  a  minnit,  like 
Cain  ha'  did  to  Abel :  'We  air  sorry  we  have  to  do  it, 
but  the  sentence  be  that  ye  shall  hang  by  the  neck  till 
ye  air  dead,  an'  the  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  yure  soul !'  That's 
fust  degree  murder,  'cordin'  to  my  concepshun.  Ye'll 
never  find  them  jedges  or  them  juries  in  the  manshuns 
o'  the  Lord,  Laury,  w'en  ye  git  thar.  An'  hell  '11  be 
too  good  a  place  fer  a  man  w'at  sez,  T  be  sorry  to  do 
it,  brother,  but  I  got  to  send  ye  to  be  kilt  on  the  gallus, 
'cause  the  law  sez  "a  tooth  fer  a  tooth,  an'  a  eye  fer 
a  eye,"  an'  by  man  yure  blood  must  be  shed.'  The  Lord 
ha'  said,  'He  that  slayeth  Cain,  vengence  shall  be  tuk 
on  'im  seven  times  more.'  No  side  partners  o'  the  devil 
air  goin'  to  make  out  the  Lord's  a  liar,  an*  git  to  heaven 


254  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

with  it !  Men  can't  pass  laws  agin  the  Lord  an'  git 
to  heaven  with  it!" 

"  'Spose  he'd  a  kilt  him !"  said  Laura,  her  eyes 
vacantly  fixed  on  Hank's  face.  "  'Spose  he'd  been  so  broke 
up,  an'  afore  he  know'd  w'at  he'd  done,  he  kilt  the  man 
w'at  war  to  blame?  He  c'udn't  tell  'bout  the  woman. 
The  jedge  an'  jury  'd  hang  him  till  he  died!  Oh,  my 
God !  Oh,  my  God !" 

"Here  be  the  slippers,  Laury,"  said  Hank,  presently, 
in  a  whisper. 

Laura  took  them,  mechanically,  and  turned  toward 
the  door. 

"Oh,  my  God!  My  God!"  she  cried  again,  chokingly 
and  to  Hank,  it  seemed  like  the  throbbing  of  a  deep  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

"WHAT  HAST  THOU  BELIEVED?" 

Billy  Ki  Ki,  captain  of  the  round-up,  pushed  through 
the  dense  smoke  in  the  direction  of  the  corral,  where, 
already,  the  night  rounders  were  forcing  the  large  herd  of 
range  ponies  between  the  spreading  lines  of  lariats. 

It  was  the  third  day  of  the  big  fall  round-up,  when  the 
fat  cattle  are  cut  out  of  the  herds  and  driven  to  the  nearest 
shipping  point.  Calves,  still  following  the  mother  cows, 
strays,  unbranded  yearlings,  and  Mavericks  at  this  time 
cannot  escape  the  branding  irons. 

Half  a  hundred  men,  more  or  less,  with  bony  muscles 
were  already  whirling  their  ropes  among  the  horses,  twist- 
ing in  and  around  the  plunging  brutes  to  get  a  fresh  mount 
for  the  day's  riding. 

A  few  of  the  men,  lieutenants  appointed  by  the  captain 
to  direct  the  scattering  bands  of  cowboys,  came  up  for 
orders.  It  was  "cap'n,"  or  "boss,"  now;  never  "Billy." 
With  apparent  disregard  for  form  and  rank,  at  most  times, 
the  men  of  the  rope  take  the  orders  of  their  elected  captain 
in  the  round-up  camp  like  soldiers. 

There  was  Bronson,  "Skookum  John,"  "Bull  Pete," 
"Skookum  Jim,"  "Slump  Waters,"  "Red  Top,"  a  cow- 
puncher  whose  fiery  red  hair  had  gained  him  the  sobriquet, 
"Bug,"  a  small,  wiry  fellow,  whose  civilized  identity  long 
ago  had  been  lost  in  the  past  he  never  cared  to  speak  about 


256  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

and  others,  bearing  titles  and  appellations,  more  or  less 
appropriate. 

It  was  getting  lighter,  now,  though  the  sun  was  yet 
below  the  mountains;  but  the  red-tinged  rays  had  crept  up 
over  the  purple  tops,  reaching  across  to  Mount  Tacoma  and 
Mount  Adams,  turning  the  cold,  white  breasts  of  snow  into 
shields  of  rosy  light,  and  throwing  the  morning  back  among 
the  foothills  and  over  the  dull,  gray  plain. 

Away  went  the  men  in  bands  of  eight  or  ten,  all  as 
tough  as  whit-leather,  and  riding  like  would-be  winners  in 
the  last  stretch  of  a  Kentucky  Derby.  A  moment  later  they 
were  lost  to  sight  in  the  pockets  of  the  hills. 

The  cooks  packed  their  truck,  and  the  wagons  moved 
onward  into  the  unworked  range,  keeping  near  the  stream 
of  water  and  in  the  shelter  of  the  hills;  for  the  captain 
knows  the  danger  to  a  herd  of  lusty  market  cattle,  stampeded 
by  the  winds  that  scream  and  rage  through  the  Valley. 
Only  the  branding  men  were  left,  and  the  day  wranglers, 
and  the  tally-man. 

Away  to  the  east,  Old  Town  was  waking  into  life. 
From  the  hills  of  the  Cowiche  Range  they  could  see  the 
smoke  rising  here  and  there  from  the  chimneys  and,  caught 
by  the  morning  breeze,  go  down  the  valley  in  a  spreading 
cloud  of  murky  mist. 

It  was  breakfast-time  in  the  Swallow  home,  and  Nancy 
was  breaking  eggs  into  a  pan  of  hot,  sputtering  grease. 
Dick  was  tossing  the  baby  up  in  the  air,  to  hear  her  laugh 
and  scream  out  with  delight.  Archibald  Gower,  an  orphan 
boy  taken  in  by  Martha  and  her  father,  had  come  over  for 
a  saddle  girth,  and  was  peeking  into  the  dishes  and  kettles 
to  see  whether  he  were  likely  to  fare  better  than  if  he  had 
staid  at  home. 

"I  shall  ride  over  to  the  round-up  camp,  after  break- 


"WHAT   HAST  THOU   BELIEVED?"         257 

fast,  Nancy,"  Dick  said,  putting  the  baby  in  her  high  seat, 
and  drawing  chairs  up  to  the  table. 

"Can  I  go  with  you?  Oh,  Uncle  Dick,  take  me  with 
you,  please,"  pleaded  Archie. 

"Not  this  time,  Archie.  I  may  be  gone  all  day — per- 
haps till  tomorrow.  I  shall  have  all  my  stock  run  in,"  he 
said,  turning  to  his  wife,  "that  is,  all  that'll  do  to  ship." 

Nancy  looked  up  quickly.  She  had  caught  the  worried 
tone  in  his  voice. 

"Do  we  need  money,  Dick?"  she  asked,  uneasily. 

"I  have  been  thinking  we  might  take  a  trip  to  Frisco, 
Nancy,  and  get  a  little  sea  air.  Martha's  getting  along  all 
right,  now,  and  it'll  do  us  both  good." 

His  wife  gave  a  quick  gasp. 

"No,  no,  Dick;  not  there — unless — unless  you  think  we 
may  find — him  there."  She  refrained  from  mentioning 
Burke's  name  before  the  precocious  Archibald. 

Dick  nodded.  It  did  not  matter  if  he  had  not  thought 
of  this  before.  It  gave  a  reason ;  and  he  hardly  knew,  him- 
self, that  it  was  a  return  of  his  old  restlessness. 

Nancy  watched  him,  furtively,  while  he  ate  his  break- 
fast in  silence.  Then,  after  he  had  ridden  off,  and  had  dis- 
appeared from  sight,  she  stood  at  the  window  a  long  time, 
in  a  thoughtful  mood,  with  little  Maidie  in  her  arms. 

Dick  had  not  been  the  same  since  he  returned  from 
the  East.  Of  course,  business  matters  and  Burke's  doings 
had,  naturally,  upset  him;  but  of  late  he  had  become 
strangely  despondent,  often  starting  suddenly  out  of  a  fit 
of  abstractedness,  not  having  heard  a  word  she  was  saying 
to  him. 

"Poor  Dick!"  she  said,  half  aloud;  "it  might  do  him 
good." 

"Take  me  with  you,  Aunty  Nan!     Oh,  please  let  me 


258  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

go  too!"  broke  in  the  incorrigible  Archie,  having  only  a 
vague  idea  that  they  were  to  go  somewhere. 

"We'll  see,  dear,"  she  told  him,  coming  back  to  the 
table  to  pat  his  ruddy  cheeks.  "Now  I'll  put  up  something 
nice  for  Auntie  Laura,  and  you'll  take  it  to  her  right  away, 
that's  a  good  little  man ;"  and  he  was  shortly  trudging  home 
with  a  basketful  of  dainties. 

Nancy's  thoughts  were  as  busy  as  her  hands,  all  through 
the  early  hours  of  the  day.  Late  in  the  forenoon,  she  heard 
a  footstep  on  the  porch,  and,  thinking  it  might  be  Dick,  she 
ran  to  the  door.  A  man  stood  there,  a  man  with  an  ugly 
scar  across  his  cheek,  a  hard-looking,  repulsive  man,  who 
inquired  for  Dick  Swallow. 

She  told  him  where  her  husband  had  gone;  and,  as  she 
turned  back  into  the  room,  she  felt  a  strange  weakness  com- 
ing over  her;  for,  somewhere  in  her  brain,  a  cell  had  been 
unlocked  and,  in  the  sub-conscious  record,  a  part  of  the 
past  had  awakened.  Then,  as  little  Maidie  cried  out  in  her 
sleep,  she  sprang  to  the  cradle,  with  a  feeling  of  sudden 
helplessness.  She  took  the  child  up  in  her  arms,  and  from 
very  weakness,  burst  into  tears. 

San  Francisco!  So  much  of  the  old,  dead  life  was 
crowding  into  her  brain!  So  many  little  things  that  had 
been  hidden  away,  came  out  into  a  new  light,  with  light- 
ning-like speed,  and  they  grew,  and  grew,  and  seemed  about 
to  strangle  her. 

San  Francisco!  Music — clinking  glasses — discordant 
laughter — voices  of  girls,  high-pitched  and  strained — a  hard, 
handsome  face,  dark,  cruel,  leering,  with  a  smile  like  the 
quivering  of  a  panther's  lip — ringers  white,  long,  slender, 
reaching  out — clutching — choking — Maidie ! 

With  a  wild  scream,  she  crushed  her  baby  against  her 
breast,  and  ran  out  of  the  house.  The  hot  sun  staggered 


"WHAT  HAST  THOU  BELIEVED?"          259 

her,  but  she  kept  on  until  she  reached  the  Channing  home 
and  fell,  helpless,  on  the  sofa. 

Laura  was  at  her  side,  at  once,  and  tried  to  take  the 
baby;  but  she  clung  to  the  child  and  sobbed. 

In  a  moment  or  two  the  spell  had  passed,  and  she  sat  up. 

"Oh,  Laura,  come  home  with  me!"  she  pleaded.  "I 
have  had  such  a  terrible  dream !  I  thought — someone — was 
taking  my  baby  away — a  terrible  man.  Oh,  Laura,  please 
come !" 

Laura  put  her  strong  arms  about  them. 

"Everything's  alright,  now,  Mis'  Swallow.  Don't  be 
afear'd.  No  one'll  touch  little  Maidie.  There,  now,  it's 
alright,  it's  alright."  She  patted  the  head  that  had  fallen 
against  her  shoulder,  and  Nancy  gradually  became  calm. 
Slowly  they  walked  back,  Laura  trying,  in  her  awkward 
way,  to  cheer  up  her  friend. 

"You  ought  to  go  away,  somew'ere,  Mis'  Swallow, 
fer  a  change.  It  'ud  do  you  good.  Why  don't  you  an*  Mr. 
Swallow  take  a  trip  to  San  Francisco?" 

Nancy  shuddered,  but  made  no  answer;  and  Laura, 
almost  afraid  to  say  anything  more,  silently  went  up  the 
steps  with  her,  into  the  house. 

All  that  afternoon  the  two  women  staid  in  the  sitting- 
room,  Nancy  by  the  window,  thoughtful,  holding  her  baby, 
and  Laura  at  work  on  some  sewing. 

"I  wish  Dick  would  come!"  Nancy  would  cry  out  now 
and  then,  looking  toward  the  hills. 

"Mr.  Carruthers  was  in  town  yesterday,"  Laura  said, 
presently.  "He  has  most  fifty  men  in  the  round-up,  an' 
they're  goin'  to  camp  on  the  Ahtanum  Creek,  tonight." 

"Oh,  Laura,"  Nancy  burst  out  a  moment  later,  "I  feel 
as  though  something  is  going  to  happen.  I  don't  know 
what.  I  do  wish  Dick  would  come!" 


260  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"If  he  don't  come,  Mis'  Swallow,  I'll  ride  over  an' 
tell  him  you  want  him." 

The  sun  seemed  to  be  hanging  like  a  huge,  red  disc, 
between  the  two  mountain  peaks,  in  the  gorgeous,  multi- 
colored sky.  Then  it  went  down,  down,  down,  and  dis- 
appeared. 

Laura  rose,  and  began  preparations  for  the  supper.  A 
moment  later,  Nancy,  sitting  by  the  window,  heard  a  low 
moaning,  and  then  a  long,  low  wail,  that  seemed  to  roll  down 
through  the  Valley  and  die  away  among  the  hills. 

"Oh,  Laura,  hear  the  wind!  Hear  how  terribly  it 
moans — like  a  human  being!"  She  shuddered,  and  began 
closing  the  windows. 

"Never  mind,  Mis'  Swallow.  I  aint  afear'd  o'  the 
wind." 

"But  I  can't  stay  here  alone,  Laura.  I'll  go  over  to 
Martha's  with  you,  when  you  go  for  the  pony." 

They  ate  supper  in  silence,  and  without  stopping  to 
clear  away  the  dishes,  shut  up  the  house,  and  started  to  the 
Channing  home.  As  they  neared  the  gate  they  heard  the 
sound  of  hoofs. 

"Wait,  Laura!    Maybe  it's  Dick!"  Nancy  cried. 

The  rider  was  galloping  hard.  Flakes  of  foam  broke 
from  the  bridle-bit  and  flew  away  on  the  wind. 

It's  not  Goalie — it's  not  Dick,"  said  Nancy. 

"It's  Bronson,"  said  Laura,  as  the  cowboy  turned  down 
the  street  they  had  just  crossed. 

Nancy  went  into  the  house,  while  Laura  went  to  the 
barn  to  saddle  the  cayuse.  The  wind  was  blowing  in  gusts 
as  she  led  the  pony  up  to  the  back  door.  Throwing  the  rein 
over  a  post,  she  was  about  to  go  in  for  her  cap,  when  she 
saw  Bronson  swing  his  horse  in  towards  the  house. 

"Whar's  old  man  Swallow?"  he  cried,  reining  up. 


"WHAT  HAST  THOU  BELIEVED?"          261 

"In  the  house,"  said  Laura.  "I'll  call  him.  Anything 
the  matter?" 

"Yes.  Dick  Swallow's  hurt — dying,  I  guess — bit  by  a 
rattler.  He's  up  to  camp,  on  the  Ahtanum,  'bout  five  miles. 
Doc  Kimball's  gone.  Tupper's  man's  goin'  up  with  the  spring 
wagon.  He'll  stop  for  the  old  man.  Tell  him."  He  nodded 
toward  the  door,  partly  open,  put  the  spurs  in  deep,  and 
flew  out  of  the  yard. 

Laura  stood  still,  speechless.  Suddenly  she  heard  a 
scream.  She  was  aware  that  someone  had  pushed  by  her, 
and  was  climbing  on  the  pony's  back.  She  heard  the  smoth- 
ered cry  of  a  child,  and  the  next  moment  they  were  gone — 
Nancy,  with  little  Maidie  hugged  tight  to  her  bosom,  was 
flying  toward  the  Ahtanum  trail. 

Over  at  the  parsonage,  a  few  blocks  away,  the  gray 
twilight  had  crept  in  through  the  windows  of  the  room, 
where  the  minister  sat  reading  a  letter.  The  discordant 
click-clack  of  the  big  clock,  in  the  hall,  grew  louder  and 
louder,  till,  presently,  Raines  lifted  his  head,  picked  up  a 
bit  of  crumpled  lace,  a  woman's  handkerchief,  and  placed 
it  tenderly  in  the  open  drawer  at  his  side.  Then  he  folded 
up  the  letter,  and  called  to  his  sister. 

"Janet,"  he  said,  when  she  had  come  into  his  study, 
"we  are  going  away.  I  have  been  transferred  to  San  Fran- 
cisco, and  we  are  to  leave  Old  Town  in  a  fortnight." 

"Gracious  me!  Thomas!  What  has  happened?  And 
youlve  only  got  started  here! — and  with  all  your  work  to 
get  the  new  church  built!" 

"It  was  my  wish,  Janet — my  prayer.  I  asked  for  a 
change.  I  fear — I  fear,  Janet,  I  have  failed,  here.  Yes, 
I  have  not  done  the  work  I  thought  I  would  be  able  to  do, 
here.  Something  has  stood  in  the  way!  aye,  something  has 
stood  in  the  way!" 

"It  does  seem,  Thomas,  as  though  bad  luck  came  to 


262  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Old  Town  with  Dick  Swallow,  and  that  harum-scarum  wife 
of  his.  Ever  since " 

"Tut,  tut,  Janet!  It's  not  that.  Mrs.  Swallow  is  ten 
times  more  of  a — but  no  matter,  lass!  No  matter,  now. 
We  are  going  away,  thank  God !  We're  going  away." 

Janet  looked  at  her  brother  with  a  keen,  quick  glance. 
She  may  have  recognized  something  behind  this  sudden  de- 
sire to  leave  Old  Town ;  but,  discreetly,  she  said  nothing. 

At  the  same  moment,  she  heard  the  low,  plaintive  wail 
of  the  wind.  She  lighted  the  lamp,  at  his  elbow,  and  hast- 
ened to  close  the  doors  and  the  windows. 

Raines  opened  his  Bible  and  turned  the  pages  listlessly, 
seeing  nothing.  Presently  he  heard  a  loud  knocking  at  the 
door.  He  heard  a  neighbor  saying  something  to  Janet  about 
Dick  Swallow. 

He  laid  his  Bible  down  and  went  into  the  kitchen. 

"What  is  it?  What  has  happened?"  he  asked  the 
woman,  whose  voice  told  him  she  was  the  bearer  of  ill  news. 

"Dick  Swallow's  dyin'  up  in  the  hills — from  a  rattler! 
The  doctor's  gone,  flyin,'  and  Tupper's  followed  in  a  wagon 
with  old  man  Swallow." 

The  minister's  face  whitened  as  he  staggered  back  into 
his  study,  and  locked  the  door.  Falling  on  his  knees  by  the 
side  of  his  chair,  he  cried  aloud :  "O,  God  keep  me  strong ! 
O,  Father  save  me  from  one  unworthy  thought;  and  sus- 
tain her  and  those  near  and  dear  to  him,  in  this  great  trial, 
for  Christ's  sake!" 

He  arose,  calm.  He  took  up  his  Bible  again,  still 
opened  as  he  had  left  it,  and,  seating  himself,  he  began  read- 
ing, at  random,  in  the  last  chapter  of  St.  Mark : 

"And  he  said  unto  them :  Go  ye  into  all  the  world,  and 
preach  the  gospel  to  every  living  creature.  He  that  believ- 
eth,  and  is  baptized,  shall  be  saved.  But  he  that  believeth 
not  shall  be  damned.  And  these  signs  shall  follow  them 


"WHAT  HAST  THOU  BELIEVED?"          263 

that  believe:  In  my  name  shall  they  cast  out  devils;  they 
shall  speak  with  new  tongues;  they  shall  drink  of  any 
deadly  thing,  it  shall  not  hurt  them;  they  shall  lay  hands 
on  the  sick,  and  they  shall  recover." 

"Them  that  believe!  Them  that  believe!  O  God,  why 
will  they  not  believe!" 

"And  what  hast  thou  believed,  Thomas  Raines?" 

The  minister  started.  He  glanced  about  the  room,  but 
saw  no  one.  The  lamp  flickered ;  the  flame  was  dying  down. 

"What  hast  thou  known  of  faith,  Thomas  Raines? — 
or  of  the  signs  that  follow  faith?" 

Hast  thou  spoken  with  a  new  tongue?  Hast  thou  cast 
out  devils  ?  Hast  thou  put  hands  upon  the  sick  ?  Hast  thou 
healed  the  sick? 

"What  hast  thou  taught  of  faith  ?  Hast  thou  made  the 
blind  to  see?  Hast  thou  made  the  deaf  to  hear,  the  dumb 
to  speak,  or  the  lame  to  walk?  Hast  thou  cleansed  the 
leper?  Hast  thou  raised  up  the  dead? 

"O  ye  of  little  faith !  For,  verily,  I  say  unto  you :  He 
that  believeth  on  me,  the  works  that  I  do,  he  shall  do  also; 
and  greater  works  than  these  shall  he  do;  and  whatsoever 
ye  ask  in  my  name,  that  will  I  do,  that  the  Father  may  be 
glorified  in  the  Son. 

"And  all  things  whatsoever  ye  ask  in  prayer,  believing, 
ye  shall  receive.  For,  lo,  I  am  with  you  all  the  days,  even 
unto  the  consummation  of  the  age." 

The  light  flickered,  and  went  out.  The  minister's  head 
had  fallen  low  on  his  breast. 

For  a  long  time  he  was  motionless ;  then  his  lips  moved : 

"Christ!  Master!  I  believe!  O  God,  forgive!  for- 
give mine  unbelief." 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 
"FOR  SWALLOW'S  KID!" 

On  the  edge  of  the  table-land  that  overlooks  the  Ahta- 
num  and  the  flat  distant  plain,  a  big  black  horse  was  biting 
at  the  bunch  grass.  His  master  stood  beside  him,  one  hand 
resting  on  the  saddle-horn,  the  other  holding  the  sombrerro, 
while  the  light  breeze,  the  hills  had  coaxed  up  from  the 
Valley  below,  pushed  back  the  thick  hair. 

"Poor  little  woman !"  Billy  Ki-Ki  drew  his  hand  across 
his  eyes,  and  looked  toward  the  village,  way  off  to  the  east. 
It  was  dinner  time,  and  he  could  see  smoke  rising  from 
many  chimneys.  But  he  knew  there  was  one  home  in  which 
there  was  no  thought  of  dinner,  nor  of  night,  nor  of  the 
days  to  come. 

"Poor  child!"  he  said,  again,  and  shut  his  lips  tightly. 
She  had  always  been  a  child  to  him,  flitting  about  the  house, 
at  one  moment  singing  or  whistling,  gaily ;  the  next,  catching 
up  little  Elizabeth  Jane  to  kiss  a  small  bruised  finger,  and 
mingle  her  tears  with  the  child's,  while  he  lay  with  half- 
closed  eyes,  silently  watching  from  the  soft,  white  pillows 
of  the  bed. 

She  was  not  singing,  now.  The  world  had  suddenly 
grown  dark,  and  drear,  and  futureless.  He  could  see  her 
going  about  the  house,  with  the  same  dazed,  wild  look  that 
had  come  into  her  eyes  when  she  knelt  beside  her  husband, 
in  the  wavering,  ghastly  light  of  the  campfire. 


"FOR  SWALLOW'S  KID"  265 

He  was  glad,  now,  that  Tupper's  wagon  had  lost  a 
wheel,  and  only  got  to  camp,  with  the  old  preacher,  after 
Dick's  suffering  was  over,  and  Nancy  had  no  longer  strength 
to  cry,  and  scream,  and  curse  God,  in  her  wild  frenzy.  For 
she  would  need  them  all,  now. 

"Well,  so  geht's!"  Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and 
leaping  into  his  saddle,  rode  back  to  the  camp  in  the  hills. 

"Jim,  air  ye  ready  for  bizness?  he  asked,  riding  up 
to  where  Crawley  was  struggling  with  a  lot  of  marks  and 
figures,  in  a  book  that  had  seen  many  seasons  in  the 
round-up  camps.  Crawley  had  been  appointed  tally-man, 
and  his  duty  was  to  enter  in  this  book  the  marks  of  owner- 
ship of  the  cattle  branded  and  to  be  shipped. 

"It  ben't  as  I  war  ever  cut  hout  for  a  dark  o'  the  bank, 
capt'n.  The  thing's  easy  like  till  I  gets  'em  down,  then 
some'ow  they  look  like  a  pile  o'  bloomin'  hangleworms,  w'at 
tips  hout  o'  yure  bait-box." 

Billy  threw  himself  from  his  horse,  and  began  to  ex- 
amine the  branding  irons.  He  selected  two. 

"Jim,"  he  said,  tossing  them  down  near  the  latter's 
feet,  "keep  these  handy.  Thar'll  be  work  for  'em  today. 
And,  Jim,  ye  better  practice  a  little  on  them  marks,  for 
ye'll  have  to  make  'em  a  lot  o'  times  before  ye  see  Betty 
again." 

"Poor  Mis'  Swallow!"  said  Crawley,  deciphering  the 
letters,  "R.  S."  and  "M.  S.,"  with  the  crudely-shaped  bird 
beneath.  Then  something  broke  into  his  thoughts.  He 
looked  up  to  Billy's  face,  his  eyes  suddenly  wet. 

"Ye  air  right,  capt'n!"  he  exclaimed;  "an'  ye  can  slap 
one  o'  them  irons  on  all  o'  Crawley's  critturs  w'at's  marked, 
or  aint  marked,  as  ye  can  get  a  whack  at,  today."  As  he 
well  knew  he  had  no  unbranded  calves  on  the  range,  he 
picked  up  a  vent  iron,  and  tossed  it  with  the  other  two. 

"Who's  brandin'  today,  capt'n?"  he  asked. 


266  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Billy  was  thoughtful  a  moment. 

I'll  handle  'em  myself,  Jim,"  he  answered,  grimly,  un- 
coiling his  rope  and  preparing  to  tether  his  horse. 

The  men  were  already  coming  in  with  cattle,  and  the 
ground  trembled  and  vibrated  with  the  jar  of  hoofs.  Men 
were  heard  in  the  distance,  yelling  and  charging  at  the 
herds.  Others  were  dragging  fresh  mounts  from  the  im- 
provised corral;  and  some  of  the  riders  were  already  in 
the  midst  of  the  cattle,  "cutting  out"  the  fat  steers,  and 
spying  out  the  Mavericks  and  the  late  calves. 

The  fires  were  burning  hot  and  fierce,  where  the  irons 
were  heating.  Billy  stationed  himself  beside  two  men,  who 
were  to  hold  the  animals  down  while  the  new  brand  was 
made,  or  an  old  brand  vented. 

Presently  a  rider  dashed  up  to  the  spot,  dragging  a 
heavy  calf  at  the  end  of  his  rope.  The  men  lay  hold, 
stretching  back  the  legs  of  the  half-dazed  brute. 

"W.  C.  in  the  ring!"  cried  the  man  on  the  pony. 

"M.  S.— Swallow!"  Billy  Ki-Ki  yelled,  hoarsely,  as 
he  slapped  on  the  hot  iron. 

"M.  S. — Swallow!"  yelled  back  Crawley,  while  the 
men  looked  up  with  astonishment;  for  the  letters,  "W.  C." 
were  Billy's  own.  But  the  rider  was  already  away  to  make 
room  for  the  next. 

"L.  W.,"  called  out  the  man,  this  time,  who  had  brought 
the  second  calf  in. 

Almost  before  the  noose  was  slipped,  there  was  a  puff 
of  smoke  and  a  stench  of  burnt  hair. 

"M.  S.— Swallow!"  Billy  called  out,  defiantly,  to  the 
tally-man;  and  Crawley  answered  back  in  a  louder  voice: 
"Aye,  aye,  cap'n!  M.  S.— Swallow!" 

This  time  the  cowboy  jerked  his  cayuse  back,  and 
stared  at  the  round-up  captain. 


"FOR  SWALLOW'S  KID"  267 

"They'll  be  all  fer  Dick  Swallow's  kid,  today,  I  recken," 
one  of  the  men  told  him,  with  a  grin. 

The  cowpuncher  rode  off  to  the  herd,  a  lump  in  his 
throat  as  he  recalled  the  scene  of  the  night  before ;  and  from 
out  the  smoke  of  the  branding  fires  came  the  voice  of  the 
big  ranger,  swinging  the  hot  irons  as  he  called:  "Tally 
again!  M.  S. — Swallow!"  And  then  the  answer  of  the 
tally-man :  "Aye,  aye,  cap'n !  M.  S. — Swallow !' 

A  lusty  Maverick  broke  away  from  the  herd,  and 
bounded  across  the  rider's  path.  There  was  a  swish  of  the 
rope,  as  it  shot  through  the  air,  a  quick  halt  of  the  trained 
mustang,  and  the  young  heifer  lay  on  the  ground,  her  hind 
legs  tight  in  the  lariat's  noose.  Then  a  jerk  of  the  rein,  a 
sharp  dig  of  the  heel,  and  the  surprised  animal  was  sliding 
toward  the  fire  in  a  trail  of  dust. 

"For  Swallow's  kid!"  the  captor  cried,  rising  in  his 
stirrups.  "An*  charge  'er  to  me,  cap'n!" 

"Tally  a  stray  to  Coyote  Bill! — an'd  bring  'em  along, 
boys!"  Billy  answered,  a  grim  smile  working  over  his  face. 
The  men  were  on. 

"W'at  the  bloomin'  'ell!"  burst  from  Crawley,  all  be- 
sweat,  as  the  tally-book  nearly  dropped  from  his  awkward 
fingers.  But  the  young  cow,  no  longer  frisky,  staggered 
away,  and  Crawley  discerned  the  letters  "M.  S."  and  the 
crude  outline  of  a  bird,  still  smoking  on  her  buttock. 

The  men  on  the  ponies  had  caught  from  the  others  what 
was  going  on.  Each  strove  to  rope  the  fattest,  sleekest  of 
the  herd,  an  effort  requiring  the  greatest  strength  and  skill. 
Old  brands  were  vented,  and  amid  the  hoarse  shouts  of  the 
men,  the  bellowing  of  cattle,  and  the  snorting  of  ponies, 
Crawley  tried  to  keep  some  record  of  the  change  of,  owner- 
ship. At  last  the  herd  was  separated,  the  market  cattle  all 
cut  out,  and  the  others  turned  back  upon  the  range. 

The  day  was  nearly  done.    Two  hours  before,  the  red 


268  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

sun  had  hid  behind  the  mountain;  but  twilight  lingered  on. 
The  branding  fires  were  out.  The  men  were  gone,  all  save 
those  who  were  left  to  guard  the  herd  that  was  to  follow  on 
the  morrow,  increasing  as  it  moved  from  camp  to  camp,  on 
its  way  to  the  shipping  point. 

The  night  herders  were  singing  to  the  cattle,  to  quiet 
them,  and  through  the  still  air  of  evening  came  the  words 
of  an  old  hymn: 

"In  the  sweet  bye  'n'  bye, 
We  shall  meet  on  that  beautiful  shore; 
In  the  sweet  bye  'n'  bye, 
Bye'n  bye,  bye'n  bye,  bye'n  bye." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 
DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY 

The  departure  of  Parson  Raines  bore  unexpected  fruit. 

The  cowboys  had  shaken  his  hand,  at  parting,  with 
little  apparent  feeling;  but  the  stage  had  scarcely  passed 
from  sight,  when  they  went,  in  a  body,  to  Skinner's  saloon. 

Just  what  happened  was  never  told;  but  the  next  day 
Skinner  left  for  parts  unknown,  taking  his  stock  of  liquors 
with  him;  and  lawlessness  was  thereafter  a  thing  of  the 
past,  in  Old  Town. 

The  Reverend  Obed  Swallow,  because  he  was  the 
father  of  Martha  Channing,  succeeded  Mr.  Raines  as 
shepherd  of  the  flock.  But  he  did  not  draw  many  of  the 
ranchers  and  cowpunchers  into  the  new  meeting-house. 
However,  they  had  learned  to  respect  the  church,  and 
treated  the  old  parson  with  reverence.  He  stalked  majest- 
ically along  the  village  streets,  his  black  coat  tails  flapping 
about  his  thin  frame;  his  face  stern  above  a  long,  white 
beard.  He  seemed,  veritably,  an  avenging  angel,  ready  to 
swoop  down  upon  the  wrongdoer. 

The  sudden  tug  of  a  double  grief  upon  his  heart-strings, 
had  intensified  the  natural  tendencies  of  the  old  man,  making 
him  a  being  whom  his  grandchildren  feared,  and  on  whom 
other  children  looked  with  awe. 

Soon  after  his  son's  death,  with  a  little  money  he  had 
been  able  to  save  from  the  failure  of  an  Eastern  bank,  he 


270  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

established  himself  in  a  business,  which  appeared  to  be 
a  consistent  adjunct  to  his  calling — an  undertaker's  shop. 
So,  as  minister  and  undertaker,  the  old  parson  not  only 
showed  us  the  straight  and  narrow  way,  but  ushered  the 
dying  through  the  very  gate  itself.  He  baptised  the  infants, 
married  the  young  people,  and  buried  the  old  ones,  all  with 
the  same  countenance  of  awful,  retributive  justice. 

As  for  Martha  Channing,  between  her  poor  health  and 
the  conviction  that  Old  Town's  salvation  rested  on  her 
shoulders,  she  was  anything  but  cheerful. 

Poor  Martha  had  weathered  the  grief  of  her  brother's 
death,  and  her  own  uncertain  widowhood,  with  all  the 
fortitude  of  one  who  felt  she  had  done  her  duty,  and  that 
God's  will  had  been  in  all. 

Soon  after  the  death  of  Dick  Swallow,  Jim  Crawley 
leased  the  Swallow  ranch,  which  had  been  partially  under 
cultivation,  and  by  his  thrifty  management,  or,  more  cor- 
rectly speaking,  by  the  thriftiness  of  his  wife,  Betty,  it 
provided  a  good  living  for  both  families. 

The  ranch  was  less  than  a  mile  from  the  town,  adjoin- 
ing Luke  Water's  thousand  or  more  acres.  A  strong  friend- 
ship grew  up  between  Luke  and  Crawley,  based,  seemingly, 
upon  the  very  opposite  tendencies  of  their  natures.  Perhaps 
Betty  had  something  to  do  with  it ;  for  Betty  had  taken  root 
in  the  Western  soil,  and  had  become  a  part  of  the  village 
life. 

It  was  only  a  rude  cabin,  this  home  she  had  found  in 
the  far  West,  after  thirty  years'  waiting ;  but  she  was  happy 
in  it.  Her  pantry  shelves  were  never  empty,  and  her  beam- 
ing countenance  gave  every  visitor  a  welcome. 

She  was  especially  cordial  to  Luke,  the  crabbed  old 
ranchman  who  had  been  first  to  welcome  her  to  Old  Town, 
and  who  seemed  to  find  so  little  happiness  in  life. 

Nancy  Swallow,  too,  found  in  Betty  a  great  comfort 


DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY  271 

during  those  days  of  early  widowhood;  and  many  a  time 
she  eased  her  heartaches  on  that  motherly  breast.  But  to 
Laura  Waters,  always,  Nancy  dung  the  most  tenaciously, 
never  permitting  that  good  friend  to  leave  her  for  long  at 
a  time. 

In  the  reaction  of  her  great  grief,  the  spirited,  frank 
impiety,  went  out  of  Nancy's  life  forever.  She  could  not 
comprehend  a  personal  God;  but  she  feared  Him.  Her 
spirit  was  conquered.  She  submitted  to  Martha,  attended 
the  services,  helped  at  oyster  suppers,  made  ham  sand- 
wiches for  church  socials,  listened  patiently  to  Martha  Chan- 
ning's  disquisitions,  and  brooded  over  the  strange  ways  of 
the  world. 

From  Martha,  Nancy  learned  the  worldly  estimate  of 
human  beings  and  their  errors;  the  penalties  of  wrong- 
doing; the  impossible  escape  from  the  results  of  sin — the 
sins  of  the  fathers  that  are  to  be  "visited"  upon  the  children. 
Like  other  followers  of  frightful,  threatening  creeds,  Martha 
never  reasoned  for  herself,  nor  read  beyond  the  plajce! 
pointed  out  by  the  man  in  the  pulpit;  so  she  did  not  know 
that  "the  sins  of  the  fathers  are  visited  upon  the  children 
of  them  that  hate  me,"  and  not  on  those  "who  love  God  and 
keep  His  commandments." 

Nancy  began  to  realize  what  "sin"  is ;  and  oh,  it  was  a 
terrible  thing ! — that  the  world,  as  well  as  God,  is  so  unfor- 
giving. For,  among  other  things,  Martha  had  told  her  that 
a  woman,  once  sin-stained,  could  never,  again,  gain  a  place 
among  virtuous  women;  and  Nancy,  long  ago,  had  learned 
what  the  world  thinks  of  fallen  women.  She  felt  that  a 
veil  had  been  drawn  between  herself  and  the  God- world. 
So,  perhaps,  she  was  not  to  be  permitted  to  understand. 

Nancy  missed  her  husband.  He  had  been  kind.  He 
had  given  her  quite  all  the  love  a  man,  like  him,  could  give. 
With  her  baby  in  her  arms,  she  would  go  through  the  rooms, 


272  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

stopping  before  a  picture,  or  a  cozy  corner,  or  shelf,  that 
she  and  Dick,  together,  had  arranged,  and  she  would  say, 
"Your  papa  did  this,  Maidie,  your  papa  who,  they  say,  is  in 
heaven.  You  will  know  about  heaven  some  day,  little 
sweetheart,  when  Aunt  Martha  will  teach  you  about  God, 
who  punishes  us  horribly  if  we  do  wrong." 

Strange,  that  a  million  cycles  of  this  earth's  travail  leaves 
us  still  groping  and  cringing  in  the  dark  alleys  and  byways 
of  a  half-lived  life,  through  a  fear  of  God,  whom  no  man 
of  us  has  seen,  or  knows  if  He  will  ever  see  us. 

Strange  that  a  woman  should  believe,  and  know,  that 
"true  love  casteth  out  all  fear,"  yet,  let  herself  be  blinded 
by  such  shallow  doctrines  and  man-made  creeds  as  send 
more  men  and  women  to  hell,  than  sin  itself. 

All  the  while,  under  the  weight  of  her  sorrow  and 
loneliness,  bringing  alternate  happiness  and  remorse,  was 
a  consciousness  of  something  which  made  her  keen  for  life 
and  the  future.  Hopless  and  hated  in  that  day  of  its  sudden 
birth,  when  wifehood  and  honor  made  it  hideously  wrong; 
hopeless  now,  yet  a  sweet  rilling  joy  to  an  empty,  lonely 
heart,  her  love  for  the  big  ranger  tortured  and  weakened 
her,  tugging  at  the  shackles  of  womanly  restraint. 

There  were  times,  when  the  wind  raged  through  the 
Valley,  that  she  mounted  her  pony  and  rode  away  to  the 
wide  stretch  to  the  north,  to  let  herself  be  carried  along  in 
the  fury  of  the  storm. 

Again,  in  a  dead  day  of  summer,  she  would  throw  her- 
self down  on  the  river  bank  and,  child-like,  cry  herself 
asleep. 

Who  made  the  rule  that  womanhood  must  bend  and 
break  with  unrequited  love,  because  a  woman  dare  not  say 
"I  love  you !"  to  the  man  she  loves  ? 

Who  passed  the  law  for  woman's  soul  to  be  a  shuttle- 
cock of  man's  desire — a  thing  to  take  or  leave,  as  he  may 


DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY  273 

choose ;  or  take  and  crush  like  a  camas  bell  beneath  a  siwash 
heel? 

Who  locked  the  lips  of  loving  women  and  threw  away 
the  key? — sending  them  to  harlotry  and  hell  for  other  part 
of  self  God  made  them  hungry  for  ? 

Revoke  the  rule !  Repeal  the  law !  Let's  find  the  key ! 
and  give  to  womanhood  the  right  to  tell  her  love  to  the  man 
she  loves,  that  marriage  vows  shall  not  be  broken  like  dan- 
delion chains,  nor  infidelity  become  an  honorable  sin  to  rid 
a  man  of  a  wife  whose  purchased  soul  has  gone  astray. 

Years  passed  over  the  Valley,  years  in  which  nothing 
happened  more  than  the  angry  mutterings  of  Luke  Waters, 
the  semi-annual  round-up,  the  coming  of  spring  with  its 
flowers,  and  patches  of  green;  then,  winter,  quiet  and  cold 
under  a  thin  blanket  of  snow. 

The  planted  saplings  of  the  once  bare  village,  touched 
by  the  magic  of  sand,  and  water,  and  lava  ash,  rose  into 
stout  trees,  to  shelter  and  shield  the  little  homes  from  the 
sweeping  storms. 

Wild  roses  clustered  about  each  doorway.  Young  men 
and  maidens  loitered,  lover-like,  under  the  trees  and  along 
the  shimmering  streams  of  irrigation  ditches,  where,  now, 
other  children  sailed  their  tiny  boats. 

Old  Town  had  become,  veritably  an  Arcadian  village, 
nestling  among  the  foothills,  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the 
world. 

Someone  had  named  Nancy's  home  "The  Swallow's 
Nest."  Truly,  it  was  like  a  great  bird's  nest,  built  in  a 
garden  of  multicolored  flowers,  under  a  leafy  bower.  Birds 
flitted  about  in  the  confusion  of  vines  and  shrubs.  Doves 
cooed  their  ever-wooing  messages  of  love,  each  to  its  trust- 
ing mate,  above  the  kitchen  door.  Hens  clucked  in  a 
motherly  way  to  dozens  of  discontented  chicks,  chasing 
grasshoppers  in  the  sun  warm  grass ;  while  Maidie's  Maltese 


274  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

cat,  pretended  sleep  upon  the  doorstep,  though,  treacher- 
ously, from  the  corner  of  her  eye  she  watched  the  birds. 
Even,  here,  in  this  segregation  of  life  in  the  waste  of  a  sand- 
swept  desert,  was  an  oasis  of  contented  beauty — Mother 
Nature  all  dressed  up  and  nowhere  to  go. 

But  a  new  sorrow  was  to  come  to  Nancy.  Laura 
Waters,  strong  and  healthy  girl  as  she  always  had  been,  fell 
a  victim  to  the  white  plague. 

Laura  was  not  thought  to  be  ill ;  and  if  she  realized  that 
disease  was  undermining  her,  she  never  spoke  of  it.  She 
may  have  felt  she  was  only  growing  weary  of  life,  in  the 
doomed  patience  of  her  one  great  passion.  With  the  pass- 
ing of  years,  her  love,  too,  for  the  same  big  ranger  had 
become  the  light  of  her  whole  being.  She  held  it  out  before 
her,  to  fade  the  shadows  of  a  rising  hopelessness ;  wondering 
if  he  would  ever  see.  She,  too,  not  knowing  why,  but  feel- 
ing the  fetters  of  that  strange  unwritten  law  for  woman- 
kind, dared  not  let  him  know;  but  knowing,  too,  in  the 
crude  reasoning  of  an  unselfish,  untutored  mind,  that 
Nancy's  heart  was  just  as  heavy  with  the  same  resignation, 
the  same  longing,  the  same  dread  of  failure  in  life's  great 
design. 

It  was  only  just  before  Laura  passed  away  that  Nancy 
learned  her  secret. 

"I  jest  would  be  glad  to  die — "  the  sick  girl  said,  rais- 
ing her  large,  honest  eyes  to  Nancy,  "if  I  could  die  fer  him." 

Yes,  yes,  dear;  I  know,"  the  other  answered,  seeing 
the  sudden  light  in  the  girl's  face. 

"An'  Mis'  Swallow,  will  you  tell  him  some  time,  if  you 
get  a  chance?  Tell  him  I  wa'n't  afraid  to  die,  because  I 
never  done  no  wrong  thing  in  my  life.  I  allwus  thought  of 
him  w'en  I  prayed.  I  allwus  know'd  that  somethin'  had 
broke  his  whole  life,  an'  I  jest  kep'  thinkin'  how  I  c'ud  make 


DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY  275 

him  ferget  an'  be  happy.     Mebbe  I'll  git  another  chance — 

over  there,  w'en  he  comes." 

"Yes,  yes,  Laura,  you  will.    Oh,  you  will,  dear !" 

The  girl  lay  quiet,   Nancy  holding  a  hand   in   both 

her  own. 

"Mis'  Swallow,"  she  whispered,  and  Nancy  knelt  to  put 

her  face  against  the  girl's — "Mis'  Swallow  will  you  tell  him 

— not  till  I'm  gone,  and  buried — tell  him  I'm  goin'  to  wait 

fer  him,  over  there,  till  he  comes." 

Laura  Waters,  virtuous,  naturally  sexed,  and  intended 
for  just  as  great  a  part  in  God's  Plan  as  Esther,  Mary,  or 
the  mothers  of  Jacob's  twelve  sons,  went  out  of  life  with 
only  one  thought  stilling  her  honest  heart:  that  sometime, 
somewhere,  she  might  have  the  chance,  of  which  she  had 
been  cheated  here. 

She  had  seen  others,  her  own  kin,  her  friends,  neigh- 
bors, and  strangers  within  the  gates,  laid  away  in  the  earth, 
most  of  them  before  they  had  accomplished  any  more  than 
to  evidence  how  puny  Life  is  in  the  hands  of  its  pitiless 
foe,  Death. 

She  had  once  said  to  Hank  Evans,  the  cobbler,  "I  can't 
b'lieve  in  any  sech  thing  as  the  devil." 

It  was  true.  To  believe  in  an  unseen,  always  invisible 
personality,  strains  the  reason  of  the  most  imaginative  brain. 
The  argument  of  the  willingly  unbelieving  man  has  been, 
and  always  will  be :  "I  cannot  believe  in  a  God  I  never  saw, 
that  no  one  has  ever  seen." 

But,  did  you  ever  see  pain?  Did  you  ever  see  the  life 
principle?  Did  you  ever  see  love,  or  joy,  or  hate?  Did 
you  ever  see  heat,  or  cold,  or  electricity,  or  good  or  evil, 
or  the  merciless  Hand  that  leads  men  into  war,  misery,  and 
despair  ? 


276  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Is  there  anything  more  real,  even  to  the  dullest  brain, 
than  pain,  life,  joy,  sorrow,  misery,  despair,  or  death? 

It  is  the  evidence  we  see — not  the  agency.  It  is  the  vis- 
ible result  of  a  great,  mysterious,  invisible  manipulation  of 
hands  and  brain  and  reason,  behind  the  curtain  of  the 
Infinite,  that  makes  us  certain  these  things  are  real. 

To  say,  "I  believe  in  Nature,  but  I  do  not  believe  in 
God,"  is  the  babbling  of  an  unbalanced  brain. 

To  say,  "I  believe  in  pain,  and  sorrow,  and  misery 
and  death,  but  I  do  not  believe  in  the  devil,  because  I  never 
saw  him,"  is  evidence  of  a  warped  conception  of  truth  and  an 
obstinate  desire  to  remain  a  fool. 

The  word,  "God,"  would  have  no  meaning  except  there 
be  an  antithetical  character  as  a  creator  of  antithetical  con- 
ditions, which  we  call  "evil."  Jesus  tells  us  that  God  was 
a  man,  is  a  Man,  Father  of  the  Semitic  race  which  has  de- 
scended from  Shem's  great  grandfather,  Adam;  and  that 
every  man  whose  Heavenly  Ancestor  was  one  of  the  Elohim, 
shall  some  day  reach  the  same  plane  of  perfect  manhood 
through  which  their  God  has  passed  in  the  evolutionary 
process  of  the  diviner  realm. 

The  very  meaning  of  evolution  implies  an  antithetical 
process  with  a  consequent  condition.  Therefore,  in  the  im- 
mortal realm,  where  spirits  strive  for  and  against  diviner 
progress  even  as  mortal  flesh  willfully  falls  behind  or,  over- 
coming, pushes  on  toward  the  godliness  of  perfect  manhood, 
we  can  well  determine  that  spiritual  forces  are  ever  in  clever, 
deathless  combat  to  recruit  their  armies  from  the  ranks  of 
men  who  are  susceptible  to  their  invisible,  divinely  ingenious 
wiles;  and  it  should  be  quite  reasonable  to  conceive  a  Gen- 
eral, leading  the  hosts  of  hell,  as  a  Commander-in-Chief  of 
those  who  have  chosen  the  wiser  way. 


DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY  277 

Because  we  cannot  see  the  great  mechanism  of  the 
Higher  Worlds,  we  wonder  about  them,  and  we  seek  to  learn 
about  them.  Nancy  Swallow  touched  the  keynote  of  the 
Great  Purpose  when  she  said  to  Hanks  Evans:  "Someone 
must  know;  and  because  we  can  wonder  about  them,  and 
talk  about  them,  and  really  want  to  know,  it  seems  as  though 
zi'C  ought  to  have  a  chance  to  learn,  sometime." 

Laura  Waters  had  no  chance  to  learn,  here.  No  man 
has  lived,  no  woman  gone,  or  yet  to  come,  who  will  have 
enough  of  a  better  chance,  here. 

Laura  Waters  did  not  believe  in  the  devil.  She  had 
never  been  shown,  in  a  way  that  appealed  to  her  crude, 
natural,  quick  reasoning,  that  life,  itself,  is  a  perpetual  chain 
of  overcoming  links,  overcoming  the  enemies  of  God's 
Plan,  overcoming  temptations  and '  lures  of  an  invisible, 
demoniacal  realm. 

No  one  had  read  to  her,  "The  author  of  death  is  the 
devil !"  But  she  had  learned,  from  her  Sunday  School  days 
to  the  day  she  whispered  her  last  words  to  Nancy  Swallow, 
that  "The  Lord  giveth  and  the  Lord  taketh  away." 

No  one  had  read  to  her  how  "Jesus  of  Nazareth  went 
about  doing  good,  and  healing  all  who  were  oppressed  of 
the  devil,  for  God  was  with  him."  No  one  had  told  her 
of  God,  as  the  Healer,  who  was  waiting  her  call,  who  must 
wait  until  asked  for  His  help,  and  who  would  drive  the  death 
angel  away. 

Had  Laura  Waters  been  taught  to  pray  for  life  and 
healing  as  she  prayed  for  things  of  lesser  worth,  Heaven 
had  a  million  ways  to  answer  her,  to  extend  her  years. 

Laura  died,  at  eighteen  years,  as  millions  of  others 
have  died,  at  the  very  threshold  of  useful  purpose;  while 
the  churches,  patched  and  propped  by  endowments  from 
mental  paupers  who  hope  to  buy  their  passage  to  an  unmer- 


278  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

itcd  Paradise,  stumble  along  in  the  wreckage  they  have 
made  of  God's  Plan,  among  the  uncountable  tombs  of 
human  hopes,  whence  comes  the  cry  of  millions  for  another 
Man,  to  show  Truth  to  a  despairing  world. 

Nancy  saw  the  true  friend  of  all  her  years  in  Old 
Town  laid  away  beneath  the  gray  earth;  and  now  there 
were  two  places,  in  the  little  cemetery,  where  her  hands 
trailed  the  blossoming  vines  of  springtime. 

Billy  found  her,  there,  one  day  in  the  spring  twilight. 
He  saw  her  pony  at  the  gate  and,  riding  over  from  the  trail, 
he  dismounted.  All  at  once  she  found  him  at  her  side. 

He  saw  the  tears,  wet  on  her  cheeks,  the  sudden  flash 
of  red  beneath  the  quick  life  in  her  eyes,  as  she  looked  up 
to  his  face. 

She  knew  he  was  to  understand,  now,  at  last;  and 
although  her  heart  leaped  wildly,  she  turned  her  eyes  away, 
and  went  on  arranging  the  flowers. 

He  held  out  his  hands  to  her. 

"Come,  little  woman,"  he  said.  "Let  us  both  leave  the 
past  here,  among  the  dead.  Let  me  be,  to  you,  what  others 
might  have  been,  Nancy;  and  I  believe — aye,  I  know  I  can 
make  you  happy.  Come." 

With  a  quick,  glad  cry  she  sprang  up  and  clasped  his 
neck,  soiled  and  dirt-begrimed  as  her  hands  were  from  the 
training  of  the  vines. 
"Oh,  Billy !    It  has  been  so  long,  so  long !" 

She  pulled  him  down  by  her  side,  to  help  finish  the  work 
she  had  begun,  telling  him,  as  fast  as  words  would  come,  of 
the  days,  she  could  recall  so  vividly,  when  first  she  saw  him, 
at  Crawley's  hut,  on  the  morning  the  wind  had  carried 
away  a  part  of  the  new  homesteader's  ranch;  and  she 
laughed,  now,  just  as  merrily  as  then,  so  like  her  old  self 
the  birds  rose  out  of  the  sagebrush,  and  fluttered  away. 


DEFEAT  AND  VICTORY  279 

Then,  suddenly,  she  grew  quiet;  for  there  came  & 
thought  of  the  dead  girl,  in  the  grave,  there,  at  their  feet 
She  crept  closer  to  Billy,  frightened  for  a  moment,  at  the 
echo  of  her  own,  happy  voice;  and  she  told  him  all  about 
the  last  days  of  the  dying  girl,  and  of  the  love  that  had 
never  been  answered. 

He  did  not  speak,  for  awhile,  and  her  hand  stole  quietly 
into  his,  while  her  tears  fell  among  the  flowers  on  the 
mound. 

"Poor  girl!"  he  said,  presently.  "Love  gives  us  life, 
and  love  sometimes  makes  death  welcome,  too." 

Nancy,  caring  only  that  Billy's  great  strength  was  hers 
at  last,  smiled  through  her  tears  and  nestled  in  his  arms. 

Whether  or  not  he  loved  her,  did  not  matter.  He  was 
the  other  part  of  her  life  she  had  hungered  for.  He  was 
hers  to  love,  to  help,  to  live  for,  to  make  his  life  also  worth 
while,  and  to  teach  her  that  men  do  not  love  as  women  love ; 
that  a  man  but  feels  the  prompting,  heaven-born  spirit  of 
desire  for  some  one,  less  than  he,  whom  he  may  care  for; 
and  this  is,  more  often,  first  implanted  in  the  sacred  con- 
sciousness of  husbandhood. 

Man's  love  is  something  which  a  woman  craves,  but 
cannot  take  away;  which  unfolds  in  the  tender  touch  of 
womanly  devotion,  faithful,  sacrificing,  true. 

Man's  love  develops  in  a  realization  of  the  helplessness 
of  woman:  that  she  is  a  fragile  flower,  on  a  slender  stem, 
tossing  about  in  the  storms  of  life,  and  all  too  often  broken 
by  the  wind ;  that  she  needs  him  for  a  shield  and  a  shelter, 
when  the  sun  has  gone  from  the  rose ;  after  the  mists  come 
out  of  the  wood,  and  the  deep  silence  threatens. 

Man  does  not  love  as  a  woman  loves.  He  holds  in  his 
heart  a  deeper  thing,  a  divine  consciousness  that  needs  the 
perfume  of  the  rose,  the  pure  lips  of  the  lily,  the  soft  melody 


280  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

of  heart-chords,  to  fire  him  with  the  courage  of  God  and 
the  strength  of  a  rising  tide. 

Woman  gives  her  love;  and,  given,  finds  quite  soon 
that  she  has  given  all  a  womanly  woman  has  to  give. 

Man  is  the  rock  to  which  God  hoped  to  anchor  her; 
and  in  the  shelter  of  his  strength  she  should  be  satisfied. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 
THE  GREATER  GLORY 

The  next  day  was  one  of  the  glorious  days  of  spring 
In  Old  Town.  To  Nancy,  whose  heart  was  full  of  the 
greatest  happiness  of  her  life,  the  warm,  fragrant  day, 
outside,  seemed  but  a  reflection  of  her  own  nature,  in  which, 
at  last,  in  reality,  had  come  the  springtime  of  love. 

Maidie,  who  had  grown  into  a  romping  girl,  felt  the 
impulse  of  her  mother's  joyousness,  and  ran  in  and  out 
through  the  rooms,  singing  snatches  of  songs;  or,  with  the 
inheritance  of  her  mother's  happy  girlhood,  whistled  back 
to  the  birds.  Even  the  big  Maltese  caught  the  spirit  of  the 
day,  and  tumbled  about  on  the  rug,  trying  to  capture  a  rub- 
ber ball  at  the  end  of  a  string. 

In  the  afternoon  Martha  Channing  came  over,  bring- 
ing some  of  her  father's  cast-off  garments  for  Nancy  to 
work  upon,  and  make  wearable  for  the  village  poor.  For 
Old  Town  had  been  rapidly  growing  of  late  and  there  were 
many  who  had  come  to  the  valleys  of  Washington  at  the 
expense  of  all  they  had  in  the  world,  only  to  find  that  gold 
does  not  grow  upon  the  sagebrush;  nor  was  there  demand 
for  wage-earners  where,  as  yet,  there  were  no  manufac- 
turing industries. 

After  Martha  had  gone,  Nancy  took  up  an  old  black 
coat,  fashioned  after  the  style  of  clerical  costumes  with 
long  rows  of  cloth-covered  buttons,  and  settled  down  io 


282  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

work.  She  laughed  outright,  as  she  mentally  pictured  a 
lazy  siwash,  strutting  about  Old  Town  in  the  garb  of  the 
church. 

She  felt  in  all  the  pockets,  woman-like,  but  they  were, 
empty.  Afterward,  in  repairing  a  place  in  the  lining,  she 
discovered  a  stiff,  folded  paper  that  had  slipped  through 
a  rip  in  an  inside  pocket. 

She  drew  it  out  and  opened  it.  It  was  a  letter  written 
in  a  homely  scrawl,  and  addressed  to  Mr.  Obed  Swallow. 

She  put  aside  the  coat  and  began  to  read.  As  she 
made  out  the  misspelled  words,  the  happy  flush  that  had 
been  in  her  cheeks  since  yesterday  went  out  and  left  her 
pale.  She  read  the  letter  through  again,  then  the  sheet  fell 
to  the  floor  and  doubled  itself  up  in  the  creases  that  had 
held  it  folded  all  these  years. 

Billy  came  in  and  found  her  sitting  there.  He  was 
startled  at  the  look  in  her  eyes,  the  white  in  her  cheeks. 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?  What  is  it,  Nancy?"  he 
asked,  as  she  neither  spoke  nor  rose  to  greet  him. 

"Oh,  Billy,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "read — this — letter. 
Tell  me — oh,  tell  me — what  it — all  means." 

He  picked  up  the  letter,  glanced  over  the  first  page, 
then  crushed  it  in  his  hand. 

"Where  did  you  get  this?"  he  demanded. 

She  told  him. 

"Oh,  Billy!  Is  it  true?— about  the— about  the  child, 
and — and  the  woman?  Did  you  know — have  you  known 
about  it — all  this  time?"  She  rose  and  stood  in  front  of 
him. 

"It  is  true,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Dick  told  me  all 
that  night  in  camp,  before — before  you  came." 

"Oh,  why  did  you  not  tell  me !  Why  have  I  not  known 
before!" 

"I  promised  him." 


THE  GREATER  GLORY  283 

"And  did  you  know  they  were  there,  suffering,  hungry, 
perhaps?"  she  asked,  stopping  before  him  in  her  walk  about 
the  room. 

"They  have  not  been  in  want,  Nancy." 
"Oh,  Dick,  Dick !    How  could  you  do  it !    Oh,  how  could 
you  do  it!"    She  threw  herself  down  on  a  chair  and  stared 
up  into  Billy's  face.    Then  she  sprang  up  again. 

"I  understand  it  all,  now,"  she  said,  calmly.  "I  under- 
stand what  I  must  do.  I  shall  go  to  them,  Billy.  I  must 
know  of  them — I  must  care  for  them.  Yes,  yes,  I  must 
go  to  them.  I  could  never  be  happy — thinking — feeling — 
no,  no;  I  could  not  be  happy!  And  Billy,"  she  whispered, 
putting  a  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "it  is  best  to  forget  what 
was  said  last  night.  Yes,  it  will  be  best.  I  see  it  plainly 
now.  It  can  never,  never  be  now.  Oh,  Billy  1" 

She  tried  to  be  brave,  but  it  was  too  mufh.  and  she 
burst  into  tears.  He  led  her  to  the  big  chair,  where  he  sat 
down  and  took  her  in  his  arms,  letting  her  sob  out  her  emo- 
tion on  his  shoulder. 

He  saw,  at  once,  that  it  would  be  useless  to  protest; 
that  she  had  made  up  her  mind.  He  knew,  too,  that,  to  do 
what  she  thought  to  be  her  duty,  it  would  be  necessary  to 
feel  free;  and,  somehow,  he  knew  that  she  must  take  this 
burden  wholly  upon  herself,  that  she  might  realize  the  true 
joy  that  comes  only  with  sacrifice  of  oneself  for  the  hap- 
piness of  others.  He  was  proud  of  her — proud  for  her 
womanhood,  and  her  womanly  courage. 

"Yes,  I  shall  go,"  she  said,  when  she  had  calmed  her- 
self. "I  shall  start  at  once — tomorrow.  Oh,  I  cannot  wait 
— not  a  day,  even.  They  may  need  me  now — or  someone. 
Tell  me,  Billy,  is  it  not  better  so?" 

"Yes,  Nancy,"  he  whispered;  "you  are  a  brave  little 
woman,  a  woman  of  all  womankind." 


284  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Then  leave  me,  now !  Billy,  now !  Go,  while  I  can  let 
you  go — before  I  change  my  mind" 

He  drew  her  to  him  and  kissed  the  quivering  lips. 

She  slipped  away  and  ran  out  of  the  room,  that  she 
might  not  see  him  go. 

She  had  waited  for  him  so  long !  It  had  been  a  dream 
of  joy  coming  true  at  last — a  joy  her  girlhood  had  never 
known;  for  the  love  that  makes  or  breaks  a  woman  is  a 
love  that  weaves  slowly  and  firmly  into  the  fabric  of  hu- 
man hopes  and  plans,  unfelt,  unknown,  until,  with  the 
touch  of  divine  color,  the  pattern  becomes  real :  a  great  tree 
with  its  sheltered  branches  to  shield  a  tender,  clinging 
vine. 

She  had  needed  just  such  a  soul  as  his  all  her  life ;  and 
sharing,  as  he  had,  with  the  world  his  part  of  pain  and  of 
long  suffering  that  merges  into  sympathy  and  forgiveness, 
he  could  give  to  her,  now,  that  wonderful  strength  which 
she  had  been  craving  since  she  first  realized  that  life  should 
have  a  purpose;  and  in  that  strength  she  could  find  accom- 
plishment. 

But  now  a  new  reality  had  come.  Not  her  life,  not 
theirs  together,  offered  so  great  an  opportunity  to  a  peni- 
tent soul,  as  the  helplessness  of  a  deserted  woman  and 
fatherless  boy,  somewhere  struggling  together  in  the  brutal 
surf  of  storm-tossed,  hopeless  years. 

It  was  suddenly  made  plain.  Accomplishment,  to  her, 
must  mean  a  sacrifice.  Real  joy,  a  realization  of  a  duty 
nobly  done. 


PART  II 

CHAPTER  XXXVI 

GRIST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  MILL 

"Mother,  where  are  you?" 

"Here,  Arthur;  here  by  the  window." 

The  boy,  guided  by  her  voice,  groped  through  the  dark 
room  to  the  woman. 

"Is  it  late,  Arthur?" 

"About  eight  o'clock,  mother.  Hasn't  grandpa  beea 
home  ?" 

"Not  yet,  dear." 

He  flung  his  cap  into  a  corner,  boylike,  and,  sitting  on 
the  arm  of  his  mother's  chair,  he  put  his  face  against  hers, 

"Do  you  think  he'll— he'll  be—" 

"I'm  afraid  so.  I'm  glad  you  got  home,  Arthur."  She 
drew  him  tenderly  against  her  and  kissed  him. 

"Shall  I  light  the  lamp,  mother,  dear?  Is  supper 
ready?" 

"Yes,  dear.  We  may  as  well  eat.  Your  grandpa  will 
not  come  home,  now;  not  till  late.  Tell  me  what  you've 
been  doing." 

He  lighted  the  kerosene  lamp,  and  the  yellow  flame 
dimly  illumined  the  room,  almost  bare  of  furniture.  The 
table,  on  which  stood  the  lamp,  held  also  a  few  homely 
dishes  that  partly  hid  some  of  the  jagged  holes  in  the 


286  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

oilcloth  cover.  A  cookstove,  with  broken  hearth  and 
cracked  covers  certified  to  a  long  companionship  with  the 
two  rickety  chairs  in  the  room.  The  restless  embers  in 
the  stove  now  and  again  sent  out  a  spark  through  the 
broken  draft,  and  the  low  singing  of  the  tea-kettle  seemed 
to  still  the  simmering  stew  in  the  black  iron  kettle  by  its 
side. 

In  the  space  between  the  stove  and  the  window  was 
an  old-fashioned  rocker  in  which  sat  the  woman,  still  youth- 
ful, though  her  face  was  drawn  and  white.  There  was 
something  uncanny  about  the  large  eyes,  wide-open  and 
staring. 

She  was  blind. 

As  the  boy,  a  lad  of  about  ten  years,  began  investi- 
gating the  contents  of  the  pots  and  kettles  and  to  stir  the 
fire,  she  arose. 

"You  sit  still,  mother  mine,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  put 
things  on  the  table,  and  get  this  water  to  boiling  again  in 
a  jiffy.  It's  getting  pretty  cold  out.  Mr.  Ascher  thinks 
it's  going  to  snow.  Isn't  there  any  more  coal?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Arthur.  I  don't  know  what  we'll  do, 
I'm  sure."  She  drew  her  chair  nearer  the  fire.  "There's 
a  little  wood  in  the  pantry,  and  your  grandpa  says,  when 
that's  gone,  we'll  have  to  break  up  the  shed  floor.  Oh,  dear, 
dear,  me!"  Putting  her  face  in  her  hands  she  began  to 
cry. 

"Now,  mother,  don't;  please,  please,  mother,  don't  cry. 
We'll  get  on  all  right,  sure.  Listen,  mother !  I've  got  some- 
thing to  tell  you.  I'm  going  to  make  lots  of  money,  and 
we're  not  going  to  be  poor,  and  you  won't  have  to  worry 
about  anything,  because  I'm  going  to  make  just  heaps  of 
money." 

He  raised  her  head  from  her  tear-wet  hands  and 
stroked  back  the  soft  hair.  His  face  showed  a  mind  in 


GRIST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  MILL  287 

advance  of  his  years;  and,  as  he  strove  to  cheer  up  his 
mother  with  a  boyish  tale  of  his  plans,  he  betrayed  a  seri- 
ousness rarely  found  in  one  so  young. 

"I'm  going  into  business,  mother,"  he  said,  after  she 
had  let  him  wipe  the  tears  away  with  a  soiled  handker- 
chief. "I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  when  we  get  to  eating;  and 
I'm  hungry — that  is,  just  a  little;  not  much."  Thought- 
fully, he  added  the  words,  remembering  there  would  be  lit- 
tle for  one  hungry  stomach;  and  there  were  two. 

He  hustled  about  and  soon  had  the  tea-kettle  singing 
loudly  and  the  stew  simmering  again.  Then  he  dove  into 
the  pantry  and  brought  out  half  a  loaf  of  bread  and  a  jar 
of  jelly.  He  paused,  now  and  again,  to  cast  an  anxious 
look  toward  the  rockingchair ;  but  his  mother  showed  no 
further  disposition  to  cry. 

There  were  things  which  went  on  the  table  only  after 
furtive  glances  toward  the  door,  coming  from  hiding- 
places  known  only  to  himself ;  for,  in  some  matters,  he  was 
not  quite  sure  of  his  mother;  and  his  grandfather  was  not 
to  have  any  of  the  good  things  that  came  into  this  poverty- 
stricken  home,  if  he  could  prevent  it. 

His  grandfather!  A  tyrant!  a  drunken  brute!  Curs- 
ing him  and  beating  him  from  the  day  he  could  first  re- 
member. 

He  did  not  care  so  much  for  the  beatings.  But  there 
was  often  red  rage  in  his  heart  when,  coming  home  at  night 
with  a  profit  of  a  few  dimes,  happy-hearted  in  the  thought 
of  something  he  had  planned  for  his  mother,  he  had  found 
her  sobbing  in  the  old  rocking-chair  by  the  window,  from 
which  her  sightless  eyes  each  day  stared  into  a  darkened 
world.  Then,  fearful  himself,  but  more  to  get  rid  of  the 
man,  he  gave  up  the  money  he  had  made,  and  was  left  alone 
with  her,  to  kiss  the  tears  from  the  blind  eyes. 

"I  met  Miss  Ross — my   Sunday  school  teacher,  you 


288  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

know,  mother,  on  my  way  home  from  the  store  tonight, 
and  she  told  me  how  she  used  to  make  lots  of  money  when 
she  was  young  as  me;  and  I  can  do  it — the  same  thing 
myself,  and  not  have  to  stop  my  papers  or  anything."  They 
were  now  at  the  table;  and  besides  pouring  out  her  tea 
he  had  spread  two  large  slices  of  bread  with  the  jelly  and 
placed  them  at  his  mother's  plate. 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  try  to  do  too  much,  Arthur,  and 
you'll  get  sick,  and  then  I  don't  know  what  we  would  do, 
I'm  sure." 

"Never  you  mind  me,  sweetheart.  I'm  not  going  to 
get  sick;  and  what  I'm  going  to  do  won't  be  work  at  all. 
What  Miss  Ross  used  to  do  I  guess  I  can  do.  It's  only 
this,  you  see:  There's  a  store  in  New  York  City  where 
they  sell  packages  of  needles — a  whole  lot  of  them  in  little 
envelopes,  with  printing  on  them,  saying  just  what's  in- 
side, and  saying  to  open  the  envelope — and  if  there  ain't  a 
lot  of  them!  Say,  everybody  will  pay  a  quarter  after  they 
see  what's  inside,  Miss  Ross  says.  And  all  I  have  to  do 
is  just  leave  them  at  houses  one  day  and  go  for  'em  the 
next — or,  I  mean,  for  the  money,  you  know.  I  can  make 
ten  cents  on  each  package.  See,  mother,  ten  packages  a 
a  day,  and  I  make  one  dollar.  Won't  we  have  money, 
though!" 

"But,  my  child,  how  are  you  going  to  buy  these  pack- 
ages? You  haven't  any  money,  and  probably  you  will  have 
to  buy  a  lot  at  once;  maybe  ten  dollars'  worth." 

"I  don't  know  just  how,  but  I  hope  there'll  be  some 
way.  Perhaps  Miss  Ross  will  help  me,  and  maybe  I  can 
get  a  few  to  start,  and  you  know  when  I  get  them  sold,  I 
can  buy  more  next  time.  I  know  all  my  paper  customers 
will  buy." 

The  woman  smiled. 

"You're  a  good  boy,  Arthur,  thank  God.    What  would 


GRIST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  MILL  289 

I  do  if  I  didn't  have  you!  Oh,  if  I  could  only  see!  We 
would  work  together,  my  boy,  and  we'd  make  money,  too. 
And  we'd  have  a  little  home  in  one  of  the  pretty  cottages 
I  used  to  see,  on  Clinton  avenue,  when  I  used  to  go  to  work 
in  Hartford.  I  made  twelve  dollars  every  week,  and  some- 
times more.  Then  you  came;  and  when  I  looked  at  you,  I 
couldn't  see  you,  for  I  was  blind.  But  it's  my  punishment 
— yes,  God  knows.  God  knows!  And  I  shall  never  see, 
again." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  mother?  You  say,  so  many 
times,  'it's  a  punishment,'  and  that  'God  is  punishing  you/ 
What  for  ?  Why  should  God  want  to  punish  anyone  ?  Peo- 
ple have  enough  trouble,  anyhow.  God  loves  you,  I  know, 
mother  mine,  because  He  knows  what  a  good  mother  you 
are,  and  how  much  I  love  you.  You  remember  what  grand- 
ma said,  'fore  she  died? — that  if  I  always  would  be  good 
to  you  God  would  take  care  of  us." 

He  left  his  chair  and  went  round  to  his  mother's  side. 
He  put  his  arms  around  her  neck  and  kissed  her.  Then  he 
put  the  things  away  and  washed  up  the  dishes  and  the  ket- 
tles, as  he  told  her  about  his  work  at  the  store,  where  he 
was  employed  as  errand  boy;  and  of  the  people  he  had 
seen,  and  some  incidents  which  he  thought  would  interest 
her. 

She  had  returned  to  her  seat  by  the  window,  and  when 
he  was  through  with  the  work  he  went  to  his  favorite  perch 
on  the  arm  of  her  chair;  then  together  they  sang  some 
familiar  hymns. 

"Dearest  mother,"  he  said  presently,  "shall  I  read  to 
you? — oh,  yes;  my  Sunday  School  lesson.  I  promised  Miss 
Ross  I  would  look  it  up  in  the  Bible  and  read  all  the 
chapter." 

He  pulled  from  a  pocket  a  crumpled  paper  and  spread 
it  out  on  the  table.  Then  he  brought  from  the  next  room 


290  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

an  old  Bible,  one  of  the  few  things  his  grandfather  had  not 
fpund  a  purchaser  for.  It  had  been  his  grandmother's  in 
her  lifetime.  After  her  death  the  blind  daughter  for  the 
first  time  turned  to  it  for  consolation. 

A  man,  afflicted,  curses  his  luck;  a  woman,  usually, 
turns  to  God. 

"Matthew,  Matthew — Mark — first,  second,  fifth — here 
it  is;  fifth  chapter.  Are  you  listening,  mother?" 

"Yes,  dear.  Is  there  any  more  wood?  Seems  to  me 
it's  getting  colder.  What  will  we  do  for  breakfast?  I 
didn't  think  your  grandpa  would  find  that  money,  Arthur. 
I  must  have  left  it  sticking  out  of  the  bowl  and  didn't  see 
it.  Well,  go  on  and  read." 

He  read  to  her  about  the  little  daughter  of  the  great 
ruler  in  the  city  of  Jerusalem,  who  had  died»  and  the  father, 
hearing  of  Jesus  and  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  he 
healed  people,  believed  that  he  would  also  bring  his  beloved 
child  back  to  life.  He  read  also  about  a  woman  who  had 
heard  about  Jesus,  and  who  came  to  touch  but  his  clothes, 
that  she  might  be  made  well. 

According  to  the  New  Testament  record,  this  woman, 
like  countless  thousands  of  our  day,  "had  suffered  much  of 
many  physicians,  but  was  nothing  bettered,  but,  rather, 
became  worse,"  and,  even  as  today,  the  physicians  had  taken 
all  she  had  and  turned  her  away  to  die. 

Arthur  began  the  story,  reading  dutifully,  and  mechan- 
ically, as  almost  all  do  when  reading  from  the  Bible. 

There  was  a  heavy  step  on  the  stairs.  The  boy  slipped 
the  book  under  the  table  and  turned  the  light  low.  Silent, 
they  waited;  but  the  steps  passed  by  to  an  apartment  in  the 
rear.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  he  took  up  the  Bible  again  and 
began  looking  for  the  place.  As  he  read  along  to  himself 
his  forehead  wrinkled  into  a  thoughtful  scowl. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  read  any  more?"  she  asked. 


GRIST  OF  THE  WORLD'S  MILL  291 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "Jesus  didn't  heal  her.  It  says: 
'And  Jesus,  immediately  knowing  in  himself  that  virtue  had 
gone  out  of  him,  turned  about  in  the  crowd  and  asked: 
Who  touched  my  clothes  ?  And  his  disciples  said  unto  him : 
Thou  seest  the  multitude  thronging  thee  and  sayest  who 
touched  me?  And  he  looked  round  about  to  see  her  that 
had  done  this  thing.  And  the  woman,  fearing  and  trem- 
bling, knowing  what  was  done  to  her,  came  and  fell  down 
before  him  and  told  him  all  the  truth.  And  he  said  to  her : 
Daughter,  thy  faith  hath  made  thee  whole.  Go  in  peace.' 

"See,  mother,  Jesus  didn't  do  it.  She  was  healed  by  touch- 
ing him,  and  he  didn't  know  even  that  she  was  there.  If 
she  had  touched  some  other  man  by  mistake  and  thought 
it  was  Jesus,  would  she  have  got  well  just  the  same?" 

"Maybe  she  would,  Arthur ;  maybe  so,  dear ;  but  let  us 
go  to  bed  now." 

Relunctantly  he  closed  the  Bible  and  put  it  away  in  its 
hiding-place. 

After  he  had  crept  between  the  blankets  on  an  old 
mattress  at  the  door  of  his  mother's  room  his  thoughts 
upon  the  story  he  had  read,  he  began  to  say  his  prayers: 
"  'Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep' — suppose  she'd  touched 
some  other  man  than  Jesus!  'I  pray  the  Lord' — she  was 
all  well  before  Jesus  knew!  'I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to 
keep;' — maybe  God  saw  her  and  knew  she  had  been  doc- 
tored and  doctored  and  they  had  taken  all  her  money  and 
she  kept  getting  worse;  'If  I  should  die' — yes,  it  must  be 
God  was  sorry  for  her,  and  He  saw  how  busy  Jesus  was! 
'If  I  should  die  before  I  wake,  I  pray  the  Lord' — if  God 
did  it  then,  why  couldn't  He  do  it  now?  Of  course  He 
could,  but  why  wouldn't  He — if  he  saw — how  awful — it — 
was  to  be  blind. 

"Oh,  Jesus,  why  didn't  you  stay  on  earth?" 

"What  is  it,  Arthur?" 


292  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Unconsciously  his  thoughts  were  bursting  forth  in 
choking  words  which  had  startled  his  mother. 

"Nothing,  mother,"  he  answered,  quickly.  Then  he 
drew  the  blanket  over  his  head  and  lay  perfectly  quiet  for 
some  time. 

"And  Jesus  said,  Lo,  I  am  with  you  always,  even  unto 
the  end  of  the  world !" 

It  was  a  painted  sign  he  had  seen  every  day,  of  late, 
when  passing  by  a  Gospel  Mission  down  the  street.  The 
words  came  to  him  plainly,  now,  and  he  was  repeating  them 
to  himself. 

Suddenly  a  meaning  came;  Jesus  was  there — in  the 
room — then — that  very  moment!  Would  he  hear?  Would 
he  do  it? 

In  a  moment  the  cover  was  thrown  back.  He  raised 
himself  and  knelt  on  the  mattress  with  his  hands  stretched 
toward  the  ceiling. 

"Dear  Jesus,  are  you  here,  now?  Can  you  hear  me, 
Jesus?  I  want  my  mother  to  see.  Please,  Jesus,  take  her 
blindness  all  away,  and  make  her  vrtll .  Don't  let  grandpa 
come  home  drunk  any  more;  and,  oh,  Jesus,  make  my 
mother's  eyes  well.  Make  her  see;  oh,  please,  Jesus,  make 
her  see  again." 

The  clock  struck  eleven  and  the  strokes  vibrated 
through  the  room.  He  sprang  out  of  bed,  ran  to  the  kitchen 
and  lighted  the  lamp.  With  the  light  in  his  hand  he  went 
to  his  mother's  couch. 

"Mother!  Mother,  dear!  Look  at  me!  Can  you  see 
me  ?  Look !  Oh,  mother,  tell  me !" 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him,  but  did  not  answer 
for  a  moment.  His  hand  trembled  so  he  had  to  set  the 
lamp  down  on  a  stand. 

"What  is  the  matter,  child?  Of  course  I  can't  see  you. 
Are  you  dreaming?" 


GRIST  OF.  THE  WORLD'S  MILL  293 

For  answer  he  gave  a  pitiful  moan  and  fell  across  the 
bed. 

For  a  long  time  the  convulsive  sobbing  of  the  boy 
drowned  the  sound  of  the  clock;  then  the  tick-tock  grew 
louder,  and  his  deep  breathing  showed  that  he  had  fallen 
asleep.  The  lamp  burned  brightly  for  awhile,  then  flickered, 
and  went  out. 

It  was  near  daybreak,  when  there  came  a  heavy  knock 
at  the  door.  Arthur  awoke,  with  a  start. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  a  police  officer,"  a  voice  answered.       "Is  this 
where  John  Rugby  lives?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"Well,  he's  hurt  and  took  to  the  City  Hospital,  an' 
ye'd  better  come  at  once  if  ye  want  to  see  him  aloive.  The 
wagon's  here,  an  I'll  take  yei" 

Arthur  lighted  the  lamp,  and  opened  the  door. 

The  policeman  entered  the  kitchen.  He  glanced  about 
the  place,  critically. 

"Guess  ye  won't  miss  him!"  he  muttered.  "Who's 
here?" 

"My  mother,  sir." 

"Well,  get  ready,  both  o'  ye,  an'  be  quick  about  it." 

A  half  hour  later,  just  as  the  sun  was  coming  up  in  the 
east,  Arthur  led  his  mother  up  the  steps  of  the  public  hos- 
pital, and  they  were  shown  to  the  ward  where  the  unnatural 
parent  lay  groaning,  with  bones  broken,  and  injuries  from 
which  they  said  he  could  not  recover.  Old  John  Rugby  was 
soon  to  pay  the  price. 

He  did  not  recognize  his  daughter,  and  shortly  after 
passed  into  unconsciousness.  At  about  the  noon  hour  he 
died. 

For  awhile,  the  doctor  let  them  sit  there,  the  woman 
and  the  boy,  both  staring  at  the  bed,  one  not  seeing,  and 


294  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

neither  knowing  he  had  passed  away.  Then,  as  attendants 
were  about  to  lead  them  out,  a  nurse  came  to  the  ward,  fol- 
lowed by  a  woman,  who  carried  in  her  hand  a  newspaper. 
She  had  asked  for  John  Rugby. 

"I  fear  he  is  dead,  madam,"  the  nurse  said;  and  the 
doctor  bowed. 

"This  is  his  daughter,  and  grandson,"  he  said. 

"Who  are  you?"  the  blind  woman  asked. 

The  other  took  the  outstretched  hand  in  both  her  own, 
and  kissed  the  slender,  white  fingers. 

"I  am  Nancy  Swallow,"  she  answered. 

Nancy  Swallow  had  begun  to  pay  the  debt  of  her  own 
redemption. 


PART  III 

CHAPTER  XXXVII 
A  BROTHER  IN  ISRAEL 

It  was  Decoration  Day,  but  Hank  Evans  sat  at  his 
bench  industriously  hammering  away  on  a  piece  of  thick 
leather. 

"Good  afternoon,  sir." 

Hank  looked  up  and  saw  a  man  with  a  satchel,  to 
which  was  attached  a  shoulder-strap;  and  his  practised  eye 
observed  that  the  strap  was  in  need  of  repair. 

"Busted?"  he  asked,  holding  out  his  hand. 

The  man  detached  the  strap,  and  handed  it  to  the  shoe- 
maker. Then  he  pulled  a  chair  up  before  the  open  door, 
and  sat  down. 

"Nice  day,"  he  remarked. 

"Yep,"  said  Hank. 

"I  just  came  in  on  the  train,"  the  stranger  said.  "Can 
you  recommend  a  hotel? — or,  better  yet,  a  good  boarding- 
house?  I  may  have  to  be  here  for  some  time." 

"Thar  ben't  any  hotel  good  fer  much,  'cept  DeLand's, 
an'  he  said,  last  night,  as  how  he  war  chuck  full  to  the  neck. 
But  thar  be  the  Swallows — "  Hank  paused,  and  looked  the 
stranger  over  critically. 

The  man  was  dark,  good-looking,  neatly  dressed,  and, 


296  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

unmistakably,  a  Jew.  He  had  drawn  a  cigar  from  his 
pocket,  and  lighted  it.  He  waited  for  Hank  to  go  on. 

"An'  thar  be  Mis'  Heath's,  over  yonder,"  said  the  shoe- 
maker, pointing  to  a  vine-covered  veranda,  partly  visible  be- 
tween two  buildings  opposite.  "She's  needin'  a  boarder  or 
two,  I'm  thinkin'.  From  the  coast?" 

"From  San  Francisco.  I  am  here  on  business.  I  under- 
stand this  town  used  to  be  four  or  five  miles  south  of  here. 
What  caused  it  to  change  location?" 

"Railroad,  principally — an'  Jim  Crawley,"  said  Hank. 
"Didn't  ye  hear  how  it  come  to  be  done?" 

The  Jew  said  he  had  not. 

"Wall,"  said  Hank,  after  he  had  waxed  a  piece  of 
thread,  carefully,  "it  war  three  year  ago  it  tuk  place,  but  it 
war  in  seventy-one,  or  seventy-two,  when  Jim  Crawley 
showed  up  here,  busted  flatter 'n  a  pancake.  He  got  a  job 
takin'  care  o'  Doc  Kimball's  garden,  w'ich  mebbe  aint  to  do 
with  the  matter.  Leasewise,  one  night  Jim  had  a  pecooliar 
dream.  It  war  that  an  old  sweet'art — she  be  Jim's  wife, 
now,  w'ich  may  not  have  no  pint  to  th'  story.  Wall,  Jim 
he  dreamed  she  war  thar,  right  afore  his  eyes,  though  he 
hadn't  sot  eyes  on  her  fer  nigh  thirty  years.  She  pints  her 
finger  at  Jim,  an'  sez,  f]im,  ye  air  to  go  in  a  bee  line,'  she 
sez,  'from  here  to  the  North  Gap,  an'  ye'll  find  a  house  w'at 
nobody  owns.  Git  a-hold  o'  that  land,  Jim,'  she  sez,  an' 
then  she  ha'  gone,  quicker'n  ye  c'ud  say,  'scat!'  so  Jim  ha' 
told  me." 

"Did  he  do  it?"  the  other  asked,  as  Hank  paused  in  his 
work,  and  looked  vacantly  toward  the  hills. 

"Jim  he  didn't  pay  no  value  to  the  dream,  but  the  next 
night  same  thing  come  agin ;  an'  Jim  tells  DeLand ;  an' 
DeLand  hitches  up  his  cayuse,  an'  they  goes  north,  near  as 
they  c'ud  cal'clate,  in  a  bee  line.  They  found  the  shanty, 
sure  enough,  but  the  land  warn't  worth  shucks.  It  war  scab 


A  BROTHER  IN  ISRAEL  297 

land,  an'  not  worth  the  money  to  file  on  it.  So  back  they 
druv,  DeLand  a  pokin'  fun  at  Jim  fer  eatin'  o'  suthink  that 
ha'  g'in  him  nightmare,  so  Jim  ha'  told  me. 

"But  same  night,  Jim  ha'  dreamed  it  agin,  an'  the  girl 
ha'  been  so  persistent-like  that  Jim  he  goes  next  day  an'  files 
on  the  hull  layout,  nigh  on  to  two  sections — w'at  no  one  ha' 
wanted  afore.  Jim  ha'  next  gone  to  grubbin'  the  land,  but 
arter  he  got  a  patch  o'  brush  cleared,  if  the  wind  didn't 
carry  off  the  hull  piece!  Sho,  Jim  orter  know'd  better?" 

"How  was  that?"  the  Jew  asked. 

"Wind  scooped  out  the  hole,  ye  see,  fer  thar  warn't  no 
irrigation  thar,  then.  Some  fellers  would  ha'  thrown  up 
the  hull  caboodle;  but  Jim  war  English,  an'  the  English  ha' 
got  grit,  if  they  don't  allus  have  ambishun.  So  Jim  he  hung 
on  to  the  old  scab  land,  like  a  dorg  to  a  root,  nigh  on  to 
a  dozen  year  or  more.  Then  the  engineers  come  along,  and 
began  cal'clatin'  on  a  railroad.  They  war  sot  on  gittin'  a 
lot  o'  land  free  fer  nothin'  fer  the  pleasure  o'  stoppin'  trains 
at  Old  Town ;  but  Luke  war  agin  'em  from  the  start." 

"Luke  who?" 

"Luke  Waters,"  said  Hank.  "Luke,  he  owned  most  all 
the  land  therebout,  bein'  as  he  got  in  the  Valley  ahead  o' 
most  anyone  else,  an'  his  children  tuk  claims,  o'  course,  or 
them  as  didn't  take  a  noshun  to  die,  po'r  critturs.  The 
railroad  fellers  war  sot,  an'  so  war  Luke.  Then  the  agent 
said  as  how  they'd  run  through  the  town  'thout  stoppin'. 
Luke  said  as  how  that  war  pleasin'  to  him,  fer  he  never  did 
want  'em  nohow.  Some  war  sided  with  Luke,  an'  some  war 
agin  him;  fer  them  as  had  nothink,  thought  the  road  would 
be  their  fortun's." 

"One  would  naturally  think  all  of  them  would  want 
it,"  said  the  Jew. 

"Jim  Crawley  war  for  the  road,  an'  he  let  out  on  Luke 
time  an'  time  agin,  not  sayin'  as  they  warn't  the  best  o' 


298  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

friends.  Then  Jim  does  some  calc'latin';  or  some  says  as 
how  it  war  Betty;  fer  the  woman,  w'at  had  been  in  Jim's 
dream,  ha'  come  to  Old  Town,  an'  ha'  been  his  wife,  fer 
years.  Wall,  leastways,  Jim  goes  to  the  agent  an'  sez  he, 
'I've  got  a  propersishun,'  he  sez,  'an'  likewise  I've  got  a 
thousin'  acres  more  or  less,  further  up  the  Valley,  w'at'll 
make  a  handsome  town,'  he  sez.  'But  ye  aint  got  nothin' 
on  it/  sez  the  agent,  thinkin'  Jim  war  talkin'  like  a  goat, 
mebbe.  But  Jim,  he  sez,  'if  ye  say  the  word,  I'll  supply  the 
willage;  an'  w'at's  more,'  sez  Jim,  'we'll  go  halves  on  the 
profits.  If  ye'll  say  it's  a  go/  sez  Jim,  'I'll  move  the  hull 
o'  Old  Town,  Luke  an'  all/  he  sez,  mebbe,  'in  six  weeks,  on 
to  my  thousin/  'It's  a  go/  sez  the  railroad  feller,  soon's  he 
got  over  his  surprise,  'if  ye'll  leave  out  old  Luke/  he  sez, 
mebbe." 

"That  was  a  strange  proposition,  surely,"  commented 
the  Jew. 

"Wall,  it  war  a  go,  sure  enough;  fer  soon's  the  rail- 
road planted  that  thar  station  on  Jim's  scab  land,  the  com- 
pany ha'  gi'n  out  a  procklymashun,  statin'  as  how  they'd  pay 
the  hull  expense  o*  movin'  fer  them  as  wanted  to  git  in  the 
new  town  inside  o'  six  weeks.  Sure  enough,  Jim  ha'  done 
it,  an'  the  hull  caboodle  war  thar  afore  the  time  war  up. 
Old  Luke  he  staid,  sot  all  through.  Some  other  fellers  ha' 
held  out,  likewise  fer  awhile,  but,  sho!  arter  they  see  the 
houses  creepin'  out  o'  town  fer  a  week,  they  got  into  a 
similar  noshun.  But  thar  war  a  lot  o'  bad  feelin*  fer  a  time, 
an'  thar  be  some  yit.  The  office  o'  th'  Old  Town  paper  war 
blown  up  by  dinnymite.  Colonel  Holland,  the  land  agent, 
war  near  killed.  His  office  war  next  door  to  the  Signal,  an' 
next  day  he  an'  Cap  Tolman  makes  track  fer  New  Town. 
Ye  didn't  see  much  more'n  trees  thar  w'en  ye  come  through 
today,  I  reckon." 


A  BROTHER  IN  ISRAEL  299 

"It  reminded  me  of  a  great  lower  jaw  with  all  the 
teeth  extracted,"  said  his  listener. 

"An'  Jim  Crawley  war  the  dentist,  sure'n  you're  a  foot 
high,"  said  Hank,  chuckling,  as  he  tested  the  strap  to  see  if 
the  work  satisfied  him.  "Jim  ha'  made  a  bier  lot  o'  money 
by  the  extraction ;  an'  he  ha'  built  that  big  house  ye  see  over 
thar.  Luke  ha'  never  got  over  it,  an'  he  haint  spoke  to 
Jim  to  this  day. 

"Did  you  ever  know  a  man  named  Gorin.  who  lived 
here  in  the  Valley  somewhere,  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago  ?" 
the  Jew  asked,  as  he  slung  his  satchel  over  his  shoulder  and 
handed  the  shoemaker  the  price  of  the  job. 

"Gorin?  Gorin?  Tears  to  me  thar  war  a  man  living 
here  onct,  leastwise  in  Old  Town.  But  he  moved  away 
arter  his  boy  war  shot." 

"Which  one?" 

"Only  one  he  had  as  I  knew  on,  Larry  Gorin,  as  war 
kilt  in  a  fight  at  Skinner's  saloon.  He's  down  in  Old  Town 
cemetery,  an'  no  one  is  puttin'  flowers  on  his  grave  today, 
I  reckon." 

Hank  looked  away  to  the  hills,  thoughtfully.  When  he 
turned  back  to  his  work,  the  Jew  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 
DECORATION  DAY 

Out  from  among  the  trees  of  Old  Town  into  the  May- 
day sunshine  of  the  hot  afternoon  came  a  youth  and  a 
maiden  leading  their  ponies.  The  girl's  arms  were  filled 
with  flowers — poppies  and  wild  clematis,  camas  lilies  and 
wild  roses,  syringas  and  field  daisies.  They  were  going 
toward  the  Old  Town  cemetery. 

"Don't  you  wish,  sometimes,  that  you  were  still  living 
here,  among  the  trees?"  the  boy  asked.  "New  Town  al- 
ways seems  such  a  barren  place  after  I  have  been  here." 

"I  love  Old  Town,  Arthur;  I  always  shall."  The  girl 
paused  and  looked  back.  "Sometimes  I  wish  we  had  staid 
there  when  the  others  moved.  I  would  rather  be  here  alone, 
if  I  could  just  be  among  the  trees.  Do  you  know,  Arthur, 
sometimes  when  I  have  been  here  with  Arch  and  Maidie, 
in  the  twilight,  and  we've  stood  under  the  trees  that  grow 
around  our  old  home,  and  where  Uncle  Richard  lived,  it 
has  seemed  just  as  though  someone  was  there — that  is,  just 
like  uncle,  and  papa,  and  others,  who  are  dead,  were  walk- 
ing round,  and  talking  to  us,  though,  of  course,  we  couldn't 
see  them." 

He  came  to  a  sudden  halt  as  the  girl  finished. 

"Are  you  sure,  Bess,  that — that — " 

"Sure  of  what,  Arthur?" 


DECORATION  DAY  301 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  answered,  hastily,  his  face  suddenly 
flushing.  "I  wonder  where  Maidie  and  Archie  are?" 

"Isn't  that  them — yes,  see  ?— -coming  from  the  river. 
If  they  stop  for  more  flowers  we  will  get  to  the  cemetery 
ahead  of  them." 

"Say  we  mount ;  it's  a  long  walk  in  this  hot  sun.  Look, 
Bess !  at  the  hacks  driving  away.  Everybody  will  be  gone 
by  the  time  we  get  there." 

They  started  off  on  a  brisk  canter,  pretending  not  to 
hear  the  shrill  call  of  the  other  two  riders  galloping  swiftly 
toward  them  from  the  river. 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  at  the  cemetery,  a  deso- 
late, flat  ground,  barren  of  everything  save  a  number  of 
mounds  more  or  less  covered  with  wild  grass  and  marked 
by  plain  painted  boards,  or  small  marble  headstones.  Here 
and  there  a  vine  had  crept  across  a  long-neglected  grave, 
its  blossom  adding  a  touch  of  color  to  the  dreary,  dull  gray 
earth. 

What  a  place  for  the  dead !  So  God-forsaken  it  seemed, 
we  used  to  wonder  if  the  angel  Gabriel  would  pass  it  by  un- 
noticed on  the  Resurrection  Morn.  Some  may  yet  recall, 
too,  an  oft  expressed  hope  that  they  might  escape  the  fate 
of  those  whose  names  we  read,  time  and  again,  on  the  dust- 
covered  white  slabs,  wondering  if  they  ever  turned  over  in 
their  graves  to  let  the  hot  sun  bake  their  other  sides.  What 
a  sleep !  even  for  the  dead ! 

The  boy  and  the  girl  dismounted,  tied  their  ponies  to 
the  rickety  gate,  and  made  their  way  to  a  far  corner  of 
the  enclosure,  where  stood  a  modest,  white  column  of  gran- 
ite, bearing  the  inscription: 

RICHARD  SWALLOW 
Born  Jan.  27,1847. 
Died  Sept.  7,  1872. 


302  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"First  time  I  came  here  was  with  Aunty  Nan,"  the 
boy  said,  as  they  began  to  arrange  the  flowers.  "It  was 
the  next  week  after  we  got  to  Old  Town  six  years  ago. 
We  came  alone,  and  didn't  bring  any  flowers.  I  didin't 
want  to  come,  but  Aunty  Nan  said  I  must,  and  I  remem- 
ber how  she  burst  out  crying  when  she  said  it;  and  she 
cried  again  when  I  stood  here  reading  the  name,  and  the 
year  when  he  died.  I  felt  so  sorry  for  her,  and  I  never 
wanted  her  to  come  again.  She  made  me  promise  I  would 
come  every  little  while,  when  the  flowers  were  out,  and  put 
some  on.  I've  been  here  so  much  it  seems  like  it  was  my 
own  father's  grave." 

"Say,  Art,  what  was  it  you  started  to  ask  when  we 
were  leaving  Old  Town?  You  wanted  to  know  if  I  was 
sure  about  something." 

"Did  you  ever  have  God  answer  your  prayer,  Bess? 
that  is,  just  as  you  prayed?" 

"Yes,  why?" 

He  looked  off  toward  the  clump  of  trees  that  marked 
Old  Town's  deserted  site. 

"Maidie  and  Arch  are  coming,"  he  said,  throwing 
himself  down  beside  her.  "I'll  tell  you  something,  Bess. 
Just  you.  I  never  told  even  Maidie,  nor  anyone  but  mother. 
It's  about  my  grandfather.  He  got  hurt  and  died,  you 
know.  They  said  he  was  awfully  drunk  and  was  almost 
home  when  a  cab  ran  over  him.  It  was  just  exactly  eleven 
o'clock,  so  the  policeman  told  us,  afterward,  although  it 
was  nearly  morning  when  we  heard  of  it.  The  policeman 
came  and  took  us  to  the  hospital,  where  he  died.  He  would 
often  come  home  drunk,  and  would  swear  at  mother  dread- 
fully. That  night,  when  he  was  killed,  I  was  saying  my 
prayers  and  I  remember  I  said,  'Don't  let  grandpa  come 
home  drunk  again,  ever,'  and  just  then  the  clock  struck 
eleven — just  that  moment  grandpa  was  hurt.  I  think  some- 


DECORATION  DAY  303 

times  I  was  to  blame  for  his  death.  Do  you  think  I  was, 
Bess?" 

"God  did  it,"  the  girl  answered,  solemnly.  "He  just 
answered  your  prayer,  that's  all ;  and  that  doesn't  make  you 
wicked.  You  didn't  mean  for  God  to  kill  him,  you  see ;  but- 
God  punished  him." 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  always  feel  right  in  thinking 
that  God  does  some  awful  things,  and  doesn't  do  some  of 
the  good  things  we  pray  for.  That  same  night,  Bess,  I 
prayed  for  God  to  give  mother  back  her  sight.  He  didn't 
answer  that  prayer,  though  He  killed  grandpa.  It  seems 
queer,  doesn't  it,  to  you?" 

"God  does  what  is  best,  Arthur;  and  we  must  remem- 
ber that  if  he  makes  us  sick,  or  to  suffer,  or  blind  like  your 
mother,  it  is  all  for  our  own  good." 

"If  God  makes  people  sick,  Bess,  isn't  it  wicked  to  have 
doctors,  and  to  take  medicine  and  try  to  get  well?" 

"She  burst  out  laughing  at  the  seriousness  in  his  voice. 

"Why,  you  goosey  boy,  of  course  it  isn't.  Don't  the 
churches  all  have  doctors  and — and  grandpa  always  takes 
medicine  when  he's  sick;  and  he's  a  minister.  But  what 
was  it  you  wanted  to  know  if  I  was  sure  about?" 

"Your  father.    Are  you  sure  he  is  dead?" 

"He  must  be,  Arthur.  We  never  heard  from  him  after 
he  went  away  that  night.  Mamma  is  sure  he  is.  I  was  a 
baby  then;  it's  sixteen  years  last  fall." 

"Do  you  know  why  he  went  away?" 

"No;  mamma  never  knew.  She  thinks  Uncle  Dick 
knew;  but  he  died  so  suddenly,  you  know.  There  was 
something  mamma  says  he  tried  hard  to  tell  Aunty  Nan, 
but  he  died  before  he  could  say  it.  Mamma  used  to  think, 
every  year,  that  papa  would  come  back ;  but  now  she  is  sure 
he  is  dead." 


304  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

At  that  moment  Maidie  Swallow  and  Archie  came  up 
with  their  arms  full  of  flowers. 

Archibald  Gower,  the  eldest  of  the  group,  had  become 
a  broad-shouldered  young  man,  the  opposite  in  physique  of 
the  more  delicate  Arthur.  Bessie  Channing  bore  a  striking 
resemblance  to  Arthur.  Her  blond  beauty  was  heightened 
by  a  delicate,  almost  fragile  look,  and  the  color  in  her  cheek 
was  too  vivid  for  perfect  health. 

As  they  grouped  about  the  flower-covered  mound,  the 
contrast  between  the  two  girls  was  even  greater  than  that 
of  the  youths.  Maidie's  hat  had  slipped  back,  exposing  an 
abundance  of  dark  curls  clustered  about  her  flushed  face. 
Her  lips,  overfull  and  red,  and  perfectly  shaped,  her  big, 
luminous  eyes — in  many  ways  so  like  her  mother.  She 
was  at  the  threshold  of  budding  womanhood,  with  a  full 
tropical  promise  of  sixteen  years — a  picture  of  warm,  red 
life  in  her  big  hat  hanging  back,  her  arms  full  of  tangled 
flowers. 

"Why  didn't  you  wait?"  she  demanded,  throwing  down 
the  vines  and  dropping  among  them. 

"No  use  waiting  for  you  two,"  said  Arthur.  "You 
are  forever  poking  along  behind,  when  you  are  together." 
Maidie  gave  him  a  quick,  questioning  glance. 

"You  don't  want  me  when  you  can  ride  with  Bess," 
she  retorted. 

Archie's  face  clouded.  He  thrust  his  hands  in  his 
pockets  and  drew  away  from  the  others  with  a  show  of 
dignity. 

"Louise  Kimball  and  her  mother  came  home  on  the 
train  this  afternoon  from  Missoula,"  he  volunteered,  and 
watched  the  effect  of  his  words.  But  Maidie  did  not  ap- 
pear to  have  heard. 

"How  nicely  you  have  fixed  papa's  grave,  Arthur," 
she  said.  "There  is  hardly  room  left  for  our  flowers." 


DECORATION  DAY  305 

"Let's  put  some  on  the  two  Heath  children's  graves, 
for  Perry  is  away,  and  mamma  would  like  us  to  do  it," 
Bess  suggested. 

"And  on  the  grave  of  mamma's  old  friend,  Laura  Wa- 
ters," added  Maidie.  'The  Waters  never  pay  any  atten- 
tion to  any  of  the  family  after  they  die." 

"Nor  while  they  live,  for  that  matter,"  said  Archie. 
"Think  of  having  a  great  big  house  and  nothing  but  nail- 
kegs  and  soap-boxes  to  sit  on!" 

"And  no  butter  nor  milk  in  the  house,  and  more  than 
a  thousand  cattle  on  the  range,  too." 

"Sh-h!     Here  comes  someone,"  said  Arthur. 

"It's  only  Remnant,"  said  Archie ;  "and  some  man  with 
him — I  don't  know  who  it  is." 

Old  Patrick  Remnant  had  been  the  village  grave-digger 
ever  since  the  little  patch  of  wild  ground  had  been  fenced 
in,  after  the  first  settler  had  been  forced  to  locate  there; 
and  when  Old  Town  had  to  bow  to  the  inevitable  and,  in- 
cidentally, help  Jim  Crawley  to  another  fortune,  it  was 
found  that  provision  had  been  made  only  for  the  living. 

So  the  square  patch  of  sunbaked  ground  continued  to 
multiply  its  white  slabs  and  little  mounds.  But,  recently,  ar- 
rangements had  been  made  for  a  new  burial  place  at  New 
Town,  and  already  negotiations  were  under  way  for  the  re- 
moval of  bodies. 

Remnant  went  past  the  group,  walking  with  all  the 
dignity  of  a  king's  chamberlain,  his  tuft  of  chin  whiskers 
pointing  straight  before  him  like  the  index-finger  of  a  sign 
post.  He  led  the  stranger  to  a  long  neglected  and  sunken 
grave.  Here  the  man  examined  closely  the  inscription  on 
the  weather-beaten  head  mark. 

"Getting  ready  to  move  the  body  to  Nob  Hill,"  said 


306  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Archie.    This  was  the  name  given  to  the  new  cemetery  on 
the  Ahtanum. 

"Who's  buried  over  there,  Arch?"  Bess  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  Oh,  I  remember,  now,  where  I  saw  him 
— in  Mr.  Evan's  shoe  shop,  just  after  the  train  came  in.0 

"Looks  like  a  Jew,"  said  Bess.  "Here  comes  Mr. 
Remnant;  let's  ask  him." 

The  stranger  had  spoken  a  few  words  to  the  caretaker, 
made  an  entry  in  a  book,  and  then  strolled  off,  carelessly, 
toward  the  gate. 

The  grave-digger  came  up  the  group,  his  dignity  lim- 
bered a  trifle  by  something  he  put  carefully  away  in  a  well- 
guarded  pocket. 

"Who's  the  man?"  Archie  inquired. 

"He's  wan  o'  the  Gorin  family,  I  belave,  from  Frisco. 
An'  a  nice  mon  be  all  the  signs,  sure.  He's  afther  thrans- 
portin'  the  c'orpse  o'  Larry  Gorin,  what  wor  kilt  onct  in 
Skinner's  saloon  at  the  Ould  Town,  to  summare  or  ither, 
he  sez." 

"He's  a  Jew,  isn't  he"  said  Bess,  with  unmistakable 
contempt.  Jews  were  practically  ostracized  in  this  Western 
town. 

"Be  the  heavins  so  I  belave  he  is!"  exclaimed  the  old 
caretaker.  "Sure  now,  niver  wor  the  Gorins  sheenies. 
Niver  will  ye  find  an  Irishman  a  Jew.  It  wor  afore  yure 
toime,  byes  and  gurrels,  and  afore  yure  father's  toime,  too, 
Miss  Maidie."  He  looked  from  the  girl  to  the  flower-strewn 
mound,  and  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"As  good  a  mon  as  iver  I  put  under  ground,"  he  went 
on.  "An'  I  hov  put  many  a  wan  here,  more's  the  pity !  But 
we'll  hov  another  afore  long,"  meaning  the  new  cemetery. 
Throwing  his  head  back  to  bring  his  whiskers  to  their  cus- 
tomary level,  he  surveyed  the  area  of  white-staked  ground, 


DECORATION  DAY  307 

much  as  a  general  looks  over  the  field  of  recent  battle,  and 
sees  the  burial  trenches  of  dead  friends  and  foes. 

To  the  old  grave-digger  every  mound  in  that  dreary 
bleachery  was  a  friend;  every  slab  a  greeting.  Then  came 
the  thought  that  his  work,  here,  would  soon  be  through,  and 
like  a  defeated  general,  he  walked  slowly  away,  his  whiskers 
crushed  against  his  breast. 

The  ponies  were  whinnying  at  the  gate,  and  the  quar- 
tet of  young  people  silently  followed  the  guardian  of  the 
dead  out  of  the  enclosure. 

When  they  were  mounting  and  Arthur  had  paused  to 
lift  Bess  to  her  saddle,  he  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Jesus  was  a  Jew,"  he  said,  simply. 

The  flush  in  the  girl's  face  deepened.  Through  the 
twilight  came  the  sound  of  church  bells.  Presently,  raising 
her  head,  she  looked  off  to  New  Town,  her  glance  resting 
on  the  distant  spires. 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  answered,  penitently,  a  mist  in  her 
large  blue  eyes. 

Smiling,  he  held  out  his  hand  for  her.  The  next  moment 
she  was  in  the  saddle  and  they  were  galloping  homeward. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 
NEW  TOWN 

The  years  that  have  come  and  gone,  since  Dick  Swal- 
low rode  to  the  hills,  for  the  last  time,  up  to  this  May  day, 
in  1888,  had  brought  many  changes  to  the  Valley.  Through 
the  magic  of  irrigation,  the  once  desert  plain  had  been  trans- 
formed to  an  Eden  garden.  The  long  expected  railroad 
had  been  completed  to  the  coast. 

From  the  hills,  where  the  cowboys  gathered  their  herds, 
and  sang  improvised  hymns  beside  the  round-up  fires,  could 
now  be  seen  hundreds  of  farm  houses,  and  the  shimmering 
waters  of  many  irrigating  streams. 

Excitement  had  stirred  the  Valley  with  the  coming  of 
the  engineers.  Everyone  knew  what  that  meant.  Some  re- 
joiced ;  some  grieved.  Some,  like  Luke  Waters,  took  to  the 
hills,  only  to  return  and  curse  at  everything  and  everybody, 
and  settle  down  again  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

From  miles  around  the  settlers  came  to  see  the  first  train 
come  in;  and,  to  many  it  was  the  first  they  had  ever  seen. 
Men  stood  in  groups  about  the  streets,  talking  loudly  and 
gesticulating;  men  stood  in  long  lines  waiting  their  chance 
to  enter  land ;  men,  men,  everywhere,  all  suddenly  pos- 
sessed with  one  idea;  that  the  moment  had  come  for  them 
to  make  a  fortune. 

Came  the  climax;  the  moving  of  the  town;  and,  for  a 
long  time,  afterwards,  it  seemed  that  the  bitterness  and  en- 


NEW  TOWN  309 

mity  it  caused,  between  even  the  best  of  friends,  would  never 
die  out. 

East  and  West  were  becoming  fused;  but  the  Western 
freedom  still  clung  to  the  Valley,  and  to  the  older  settlers, 
and  made  a  lively  background  for  the  Eastern  customs,  and 
the  more  serious  struggle  for  a  livelihood.  New  comers  were 
mainly  from  among  a  more  cultured  class  of  Easterners,  and 
were  quick  to  discern  the  better  element  of  the  pioneer 
village. 

A  social  caste  had  begun  to  manifest  itself,  in  which, 
however,  the  money  of  the  cattleman  or  rancher  softened 
the  discord  of  frontier  ways.  Few  people  of  New  Town 
went  fishing,  now,  on  Sundays;  but  trim,  young  ladies, 
demurely  carrying  prayer  books,  went  to  church,  insitead. 

Many  of  the  villagers  had  built  larger  and  better  houses 
in  New  Town.  The  streets  were  wider,  and  were  laid  out 
with  some  idea  of  what  the  future  would  require.  The  pop- 
lar switches,  stuck  in  the  soft  earth  besides  the  narrow 
water  borders,  had  grown,  in  three  years,  to  yield  abundant 
shade;  for  things  take  on  a  magic  growth  when  land,  under 
the  desert  sun,  is  watered. 

Old  Town  had  been  deserted  by  all,  save  Luke  Waters. 
The  trees  and  the  footpaths,  hedged  with  vines  and  pink 
roses,  now  offered  a  trysting-place  for  lovers.  Cows  grazed 
beside  the  running  water,  and  slept  among  the  poppies  and 
the  camas  lilies,  the  clanking  of  their  bells  mingling  with 
the  bleating  of  the  lambs.  At  night,  the  coyotes  howled  in 
the  lonely  streets,  adding  their  dismal  cries  to  the  plaintive 
sobbing  of  the  winds. 

Old  Luke's  prophecy  had  come  true.  "Billy  Ki-Ki" 
was,  now,  known  as  Mr.  William  Carruthers;  and  "Bron- 
son"  was,  now,  Mr.  Bronson. 

Both  had  prospered.  Many,  however,  had  not.  Strange 
perhaps  as  it  seemed  to  the  new  settlers,  the  old  timers,  with 


310  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

few  exceptions,  were  even  poorer  than  they  had  been  before 
the  coming  of  the  railroad. 

In  one  of  the  best-appointed  homes  in  New  Town  lived 
big  Jim  Crawley  and  his  sweet-faced  wife,  Betty.  For 
forty  years  he  had  struggled  against  the  stream,  to  see  at 
last  the  gold  pile  up  in  his  strong  box.  And  now  that  he 
was  the  wealthiest,  by  far,  of  all  the  men  in  New  Town, 
there  was  something  lacking — something  for  which  both  he 
and  Betty  would  gladly  give  their  all  and  go  back  to  the 
little  hut  on  the  wind-swept  ranch ;  it  was  to  hear  the  patter 
of  baby  footsteps  over  the  floor,  the  merry  laughter  of  a 
child,  the  cry  of  "father,"  "mother,"  and  feel  the  heart- 
response  of  parenthood. 

"It's  a  bad  mistake,  me  'appy  'earties,"  he  would  say  to 
us,  when  we  had  gathered  about  his  big  fireplace  at  his  in- 
vitation, on  a  Hallowe'en  night,  to  listen  to  his  tales  of  ad- 
venture in  Australia  and  Brazil.  "Get  married  w'en  ye  air 
young!  Aye,  w'en  ye  air  young!  For  a  fortun's  not  the 
honly  thing,  me  lads  an*  lassies !"  And  he  would  shake  his 
head  sadly  for  a  moment,  while,  merrily,  we  would  throw 
the  apple-parings  over  our  shoulders,  to  get  the  initial  oi 
him,  or  her,  who  was  to  be  our  mate.  Sometimes  it  would 
come  a  "C,"  whereupon,  laughingly,  the  girls  would  turn 
to  Betty  and  ask  about  her  health,  and  if  her  husband  had 
always  been  good  to  her. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  following  Decoration  Day, 
and  on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  Swallow  home,  facing  the 
Western  sky  and  Mount  Tacoma,  a  little  company  had  gath- 
ered. The  early  supper  was  just  over,  and  through  the 
open  door  and  windows  came  the  clatter  of  the  dishes  as 
the  servant  gathered  them  up. 

Maidie  was  sitting  on  the  rug-covered  steps,  humming 
a  low  air  to  the  accompaniment  of  a  guitar  which  she  held, 
languidly,  in  her  lap.  In  a  willow  rocker,  so  dose  that  the 


NEW  TOWN  311 

girl  had  found  a  resting  place  for  her  head,  was  Nancy, 
clear-eyed,  though  with  a  trace  of  sadness  where  had  been 
the  old  fire  of  independence  and  the  grace  of  carelessness. 

"Mamma,"  said  Maidie,  presently,  letting  her  fingers 
come  to  a  sudden  stop  on  the  strings,  "here's  a  man  coming 
down  the  street,  with  a  valise,  and  I'll  bet  he's  coming  here." 

The  Swallow  home  was  now  the  principal  village 
boarding-house,  and  when  a  stranger  came  to  New  Town, 
and  made  inquiry  for  a  place  to  stop,  nine  times  out  of  ten 
he  was  directed  to  "The  Swallow  Nest." 

"We  cannot  accommodate  another  one,  Maidie,  and  you 
can  tell  him  so."  Nancy  rose  and  went  into  the  house,  paus- 
ing a  moment  to  pat  the  cheek  of  a  quiet,  little  woman  near 
the  door. 

"You  shouldn't  run  away,  Nancy,"  the  latter  called 
after  her.  "He  may  be  handsome,  and — and  eligible,  per- 
haps; and  I'm  not  a  good  judge,  you  know."  There  had 
previously  been  some  bantering  along  this  line  at  her  ex- 
pense. 

"He's  handsome,  auntie,  I  can  see  from  here.  And  he's 
broad  shouldered  and  strong-looking."  Maidie  glanced  up, 
a  little  vengefully,  to  a  small,  thin  German,  who  was  busy 
cleaning  out  a  black-stemmed  pipe,  much  to  the  obvious  dis- 
gust of  two  other  men,  who  were  smoking  cigars. 

"You  haf  goot  eyes  ven  you  see  a  man,  Mees  Maidie," 
he  said,  without  turning  his  head.  "But  ven  I  was  young  as 
you  arretty,  I  haf  many — ya,  many  gompliments." 

Maidie's  laughter  rang  out,  incredulously;  then  she 
turned,  startled ;  for  the  new  comer  was  at  her  elbow. 

He  was  a  man  around  forty,  with  whitened  hair  about 
the  temples. 

*Mrs.  Swallow?"  he  asked,  glancing  from  her  to  the 
woman  in  the  chair.  Then  he  stared  hard  at  Maidie. 


312  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Mamma  is  in  the  house,  sir,"  she  said,  rising.  "Were 
you  looking  for  a  boarding-place?" 

"I  was  referred  here  by  a  friend." 

"We  have  no  more  room,  I  believe,"  Maidie  told  him. 

The  woman  in  the  rocking-chair  caught  the  tone  of  re- 
gret in  her  voice. 

"You  can  give  him  Arthur's  room,"  she  said.  "Arthur 
can  sleep  on  his  cot  in  the  attic;  and  he's  been  talking  of 
doing  it,  anyway." 

"Oh,  no;  I  wouldn't  put  you  to  that  inconvenience," 
broke  in  the  stranger,  hastily.  "Only  I  hoped  I  might  avoid 
going  to  a  hotel." 

"If  you  will  take  a  seat,  sir,  I  will  speak  to  mamma," 
Maidie  said,  inwardly  hoping  some  arrangement  might  be 
made.  There  is  something  about  a  man  with  prematurely 
gray  hair  that  appeals  to  the  sentimental  natures  of  young 
women.  The  stranger's  glance  followed  her  with  a  puzzled 
expression. 

"Mrs.  Heath  haf  a  room,  I  hear  Arthur  say,"  volun- 
teered the  German,  as  the  man  put  down  his  satchel  and 
dropped  into  the  chair. 

"No,"  said  the  woman  by  the  door,  "Arthur  said  the 
man  who  came  on  the  train  yesterday  went  there." 

"No  one  else  would  take  him,"  said  one  of  the  men. 
"He  was  a  Jew." 

At  this  moment  Maidie  reappeared  followed  by  her 
mother. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir,"  Mrs.  Swallow  began,  taking  the  card 
the  man  held  out  to  her,  "but — but— Tom  Payne !"  She  let 
the  card  drop  from  her  hand  and  stared  at  him. 

"Yes,  yes;  it  is  Tom!  Don't  you  remember  me? — the 
litde  girl  you  played  with,  years  ago,  and  taught  to  read  and 
write,  and  everything?" 

"Pat  Weath— " 


NEW  TOWN  313 

"Yes,  yes;  in  the  camps."  She  stopped  suddenly,  weak 
and  trembling. 

In  a  second  she  had  summed  up  the  days  of  her  life 
since  she  had  seen  him  last,  in  camp,  years  ago.  He  didn't 
know — of  course,  nobody  knew !  Only,  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  brought  to  her  a  book  that  she  had  long  ago  shut  up 
and  put  away  forever;  and  now  he  was  opening  it  before 
them  all. 

"Take  this  chair — sit  down,  here,  Mrs.  Swallow."  His 
voice  seemed  to  be  far  away.  She  let  him  push  her  gently 
in  the  seat.  "How  glad  I  am  to  find  you  again,  and  with  a 
daughter  older  than  you  were  when  I  left  you  in  camp, 
twenty  years  ago.  How  time  melts  away!  Young  lady, 
you're  a  true  picture  of  your  mother,  then.  Twenty  years 
ago!  You  were  'Midget,'  then,  Mrs.  Swallow.  Well,  well. 
Tell  me  about  it — how  you  came  here.  Did  you  finally  get 
to  school?" 

"Yes,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "I  went  to  school,  and 
— and  then  I  met  Mr.  Swallow  and  we  came  here.  That  was 
in  seventy  or  seventy-one.  Maidie  was  born  a  year  later, 
and  a  few  months  afterward  Mr.  Swallow  died." 

She  introduced  him  to  the  men,  Doctor  Rogers,  Mr. 
Gordon  and  Professor  Swartz;  and  to  Mrs.  Brown,  the 
woman  in  the  rocking-chair. 

I  cannot  see  you,  sir,"  the  woman  said,  putting  out  her 
hand,  gropingly.  "I  am  blind." 

He  took  the  hand  gently  and  looked  into  the  large, 
staring  eyes. 

"It  seems  a  cruel  affliction,  Mrs.  Brown,"  he  said. 
"But  when  one  sees  the  misery  and  suffering  everywhere  in 
the  world  it  is,  after  all,  a  partial  blessing." 

"And  have  you  seen  much  of  the  world,  sir?"  she 
asked. 

"I  have  travelled  a  great  deal,  madam,  in  Mexico,  South 


314  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

America,  Australia  and  the  Orient;  and  I  have  seen  much 
I  had  rather  left  unseen." 

"Oh,  will  you  tell  us  about  your  travels — about  those 
countries,  Mr.  Payne?"  Maidie  asked,  making  room  for  him 
beside  her  on  the  step. 

"Sometime,  later,  I  will.  But  first  tell  me  about  your 
village,  and  if  you  appreciate  the  glorious  sunset  yonder. 
In  all  other  lands  I  have  never  seen  anything  in  nature  more 
beautiful  than  these  Western  sunsets.  How  the  colors  spread 
out  over  the  mountain  tops; — just  as  though  they  were 
painted  against  the  sky.  They  remind  me  of  the  multi- 
colored shawls  worn  by  women  in  Mexico.  Does  it  ever 
seem  wonderful  to  you  how  the  peak  of  Mount  Adams 
changes  from  red  to  gold,  and  how  purple  the  snow  on 
Mount  Tacoma  becomes  in  the  same  moment?" 

"Are  you  an  artist?"  she  asked.  Girls  are  always 
dreaming  of  artists  and  authors. 

"I  might  say  I  am,  in  a  way,"  he  answered,  smiling  at 
her.  "I  am  a  landscape  artist — a  surveyor — or  was — a  civil 
engineer." 

"Maidie  is  encouraging  me  with  the  progress  she  is 
making  with  her  painting,"  her  mother  said,  with  a  touch 
of  pride.  This  brought  an  audible  grunt  from  the  profes- 
sor. 

"Professor  Swartz  would  like  to  say  as  much  about  my 
music;  wouldn't  you,  professor?" 

"You  haf  vat  you  call  talent,  Mees  Maidie,  but  not  of 
batience? — no,  not  of  vat  you  call  garefulness."  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  though  to  transfer  the  respon- 
sibility elsewhere. 

At  this  moment  Arthur  Brown  turned  into  the  yard. 
With  him  was  a  boy  about  twelve  years  of  age,  a  cripple, 
afflicted  with  what  is  termed  congenital  deformity.  In 


NEW  TOWN  315 

walking  he  was  obliged  to  drag  one  twisted  foot  over  the 
other. 

"Ah,  here  comes  my  little  friend,  Perry,"  said  Mr. 
Payne. 

"Perry  Heath?  Do  you  know  Perry  Heath?"  Maidie 
asked  in  surprise. 

"We  came  together  from  Pasco  on  the  same  train 
tjoday.  It  was  he  who  directed  me  here.  And  this  is  Arthur, 
of  whom  he  told  me  much — much  to  the  young  man's 
credit,"  he  added,  as  the  boys  came  up  the  steps. 

"Perry  has  also  told  me  about  you,  Mr.  Payne," 
Arthur  said,  shaking  hands  with  him. 

"And  just  think,  Art,"  said  Maidie,  "Mr.  Payne  knew 
mamma  when  she  was  a  little  girl ;  and  he  has  been  all  over 
the  world — in  Australia,  and  Mexico,  and  India." 

Perry  sat  down  on  one  of  the  lower  steps,  and  Arthur 
went  to  his  favorite  place  on  the  broad  arm  of  his  mother's 
chair. 

"There's  a  man  over  at  our  house  who  knows  you,  Mr. 
Payne,"  said  Perry.  "His  name  is  Cohen,  a  lawyer  from 
San  Francisco.  He  says  he  came  on  the  train  with  you  as 
far  as  Pasco,  from  Butte,  yesterday;  and  he's  coming  over, 
after  a  while,  to  see  you.  I  told  him  you  would  probably 
be  here,  sir." 

"He  is  a  Jew,"  said  Payne,  "and  seems  a  very  intelli- 
gent man.  He  is  from  San  Francisco,  but  has  been  in  the 
East  on  business.  We  had  quite  an  interesting  talk  on  the 
train — about  religion,  of  course.  He  is  well  read  in  the 
Scriptures,  but  broadminded,  indeed." 

"He  called  here  yesterday,"  said  Nancy,  "and  I  sent  him 
to  Mrs.  Heath's.  I  hadn't  any  room,"  she  added,  hastily, 
seeing  Payne's  quick,  questioning  glance.  "I  will  have  to 
put  you  in  the  attic,  I  fear." 

"Arthur  will  sleep  there,"  said  Mrs.  Brown,  quietly. 


316  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Now,  Art,  you  and  Perry  listen,"  said  Maidie.  "Mr. 
Payne  is  going  to  tell  me  what  makes  colors  and  about  other 
things.  Go  on,  please,  Mr.  Payne." 

"I'm  afraid  my  story  will  seem  more  like  a  lecture," 
Payne  said,  laughingly.  But  he  went  ahead  and  told  them 
the  sun  being  a  great  electrical  carbon,  giving  off  heat  that 
causes  light  by  the  vibration  of  atmospheric  forces.  He 
explained  how,  at  one  time,  the  light  and  heat  for  the  earth 
was  probably  in  the  shape  of  huge  electric  bands,  such  as 
now  encircle  Saturn;  that  the  sun  and  moon  were  undoubt- 
edly made  from  these  very  bands  of  light,  in  the  course  of 
natural  operation  of  the  laws  which  control  the  making  of 
worlds.  Some  day,  he  told  them,  the  earth  would  resolve 
again  into  the  vaporous  essences  from  which  it  came,  and 
a  new  earth,  and  a  new  heaven  would  be  created. 

Nancy  sat  very  quiet,  listening.  She  was  thinking  of 
the  morning  when  Parson  Raines  started  to  tell  her  the 
world's  beginning.  It  had  all  passed  from  her  years  ago. 

"Do  you  have  to  know  about  all  these  things  to  be  an 
engineer?"  Maidie  was  asking. 

Payne  laughed. 

"Hardly,"  he  said.  "But  we  learn  many  things  that  are 
interesting,  in  electrical  engineering;  and,  too,  I  haven't  al- 
ways been  an  engineer.  It  had  taken  root  in  me,  though, 
before  I  left  school  and  straggled  into  the  railroad  camp, 
where  I  met  your  mother.  But,  afterward,  I  took  a  course 
in  college.  Then  I  went  abroad,  to  India.  Then  I  found 
myself  in  Australia,  where  I  made  the  acquaintance  of  an 
evangelist,  a  most  noble  fellow,  and  becoming  interested  in 
his  work,  I  took  a  notion  to  study  for  the  ministry.  We 
were  together  more  than  a  year,  and  I  found  him  a  mine 
of  wisdom,  knowledge,  and  practical  ideas,  both  as  to  re- 
ligious and  material  things.  His  faith  in  God  and  in  the 
power  of  faith  led  him  to  the  verge  of  miraculous  manifes- 


NEW  TOWN  317 

tations.       Sydney  is  one  of  the  greatest  educational  centers 
in  the  world." 

The  German  professor  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  drew 
vigorously  at  his  black-stemmed  pipe. 

"Did  you  preach?"  Maidie  asked. 

"Yes,  for  a  while.  But  in  going  about  among  the  peo- 
ple of  the  parish  I  found  so  much  sickness,  so  much  dis- 
ease and  physical  suffering,  I  felt  I  ought  to  study  medicine, 
so  that  I  would  be  able  to  help  their  bodies  as  well  as  their 
spirits.  When  I  had  learned  something  of  the  so-called 
science  of  medicine,  I  found  I  could  not  consistently  be  a  doc- 
tor and  at  the  same  time  a  minister  of  the  gospel,  and  vice 
versa ;  so  I  chucked  the  whole  business  and  came  back  to  the 
States." 

"How  about  you,  Doc?"  Mr.  Gordon  asked  of  Doctor 
Rogers.  "You  stuck  to  medicine,  I  see." 

"I  never  tried  to  be  a  preacher,"  replied  the  doctor, 
winking  at  the  professor. 

"You  vould  not  haf  to  make  a  vorse  breacher  as  a  doc- 
tor," the  German  retorted,  knocking  the  ashes  from  his  pipe. 
Then  he  got  up  and  went  into  the  house. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Christian  Science,  sir?"  Mrs. 
Brown  asked,  in  a  quick,  interested  tone.  "Arthur  has  been 
reading  to  me  some  things  that  are  said  about  it.  Do  you 
believe  they  heal  people?" 

"Christian  Science,  Mrs.  Brown,"  he  said,  taking  the 
chair  vacated  by  the  professor,  to  be  nearer  the  blind 
woman,  "is  but  one  of  several  religions  of  this  century 
which  have  sprung  up  as  a  result  of  church  apostasy  that  is 
out  of  harmony  with  the  natural  intelligence  of  men.  'The 
profession  of  surgery  is  a  confession  of  ignorance,'  said  a 
prominent  surgeon,  recently.  It  is  a  confession  that  medi- 
cine is  not  a  science.  Scores  of  thousands  are  murdered 
every  year  in  church  hospitals,  through  medical  and  surgical 


318  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

experiment.  Christian  Science  is  no  new  discovery  and, 
strange  to  say,  offers  no  scientific  principles  whatever.  The 
great  covenant  between  God  and  Israel  was  a  promise  of 
God  to  keep  the  Israelites  from  sickness  and  disease  if  they 
would  keep  His  commandments." 

"But,  sir,  are  people  healed  of  disease,  and — and  af- 
flictions in  this  Christian — this  new  church?"  pursued  the 
blind  woman. 

"Undoubtedly!"  declared  Payne.  "Anyone  who  will 
stop  using  medicine  and  drugs  and  will  have  faith  in  God, 
should,  naturally,  get  well.  The  medical  profession  would 
gladly  cease  administering  drugs  and  poisonous  chemicals, 
could  all  agree  to  do  so  and  have  confidence  one  in  the  other. 
However,  they  realize  that  healing  really  depends  upon 
faith,  even  though  that  faith  be  in  their  worthless  potions." 

"It  seems  unjust,"  ventured  Nancy,  "that  persons  must 
suffer  for  a  whole  lifetime,  because  they  do  not  happen  to 
know  about  a  certain  medicine,  or  a  certain  doctor.  If  we 
do  not  know  what  causes  life,  how  can  any  man  know  how 
to  make  a  sick  person  well?" 

"But  Mrs.  Eddy  has  a  large  following,  has  she  not?" 
persisted  Mrs.  Brown. 

"None  of  whom,  so  far  as  I  have  talked  with  them, 
know  any  more  about  the  so-called  'science'  than  you  do. 
They  claim  to  be  following  the  teaching  of  Jesus;  but  he 
said  'they  shall  lay  hands  on  the  sick,  and  they  shall  re- 
cover.' Christian  Scientists  do  not  lay  hands  upon  the  sick, 
for  the  reason,  I  am  told,  they  could  not  then  charge  a  fee 
for  their  prayers,  else  they  would  be  classed  as  doctors,  and 
be  required  to  pass  a  medical  examination." 

"There's  a  crazy  preacher  here  in  New  Town,  right 
now,"  interrupted  Doctor  Rogers,  "who  is  trying  to  make 
some  ignorant  people  believe  they  can  get  well  if  they'll  let 


NEW  TOWN  319 

him  lay  his  hands  on  them.  All  he  wants  is  to  get  his  hands 
in  their  pockets." 

"What  troubles  you,  Doc,  is  that  you're  afraid  he'll 
beat  you  to  it,"  chaffed  Gordon. 

"It  does  seem  so,"  sighed  the  blind  woman.  This  last 
hope  was  about  to  be  taken  from  her.  "But  some  are 
healed,  even  of  blindness,"  the  papers  say." 

"If  any  are  healed,"  said  Payne,  sympathetically,  "it 
is  through  a  simple  faith  in  God,  and  not  because  of  any 
scientific  treatment.  Mrs.  Swallow  is  right.  It  should  not 
be  necessary  to  know  a  certain  science  or  a  certain  drug  or 
a  certain  doctor.  This  new  religion  is  misleading  and 
greatly  perplexing  to  educated  people.  It  calls  evil  a  thing; 
and  says,  because  God  made  all  things,  evil  is  good.  But 
evil  is  a  condition — not  a  thing;  and  conditions  made  by 
men  are  mostly  responsible  for  physical  ailments.  It  mixes 
up  soul,  spirit,  mind,  matter,  God,  error,  principle,  and 
other  terms,  all  more  or  less  mysterious  and  abstract,  and  in 
such  confusion,  a  hundred  generations  of  human  progress 
will  not  be  able  to  disentangle  them.  It  is  a  fascinating 
theory — like  its  mother,  Theosophy — a  bridge  of  ambi- 
guity that  spans  the  gulf  'twixt  reason  and  despair.  That  is 
my  conclusion." 

"She  says  'Christ'  means,  'soul  outside  of  body/  "  broke 
in  Gordon.  "That's  too  deep  for  me." 

"That,  and  other  statements  in  Mrs.  Eddy's  book, 
called  'Science  and  Health/  are  the  result  of  her  apparent 
ignorance  of  the  meaning  of  these  terms.  The  Book  of 
Leviticus  tells  us  that  'soul  is  the  blood  of  the  flesh/  Imag- 
ine a  man  with  his  blood  on  the  outside  of  his  body !  Again 
she  quotes  what  she  may  think  is  the  correct  translation: 
'The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  you/  The  Greek  text 
never  read  that  way.  It  plainly  says  'The  kingdom  of 
heaven  is  in  the  midst  of  you' — just  as  we  say,  now,  that 


320  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

'anarchy  is  in  our  midst.'  The  kingdom  of  heaven  must 
be  built  up  by  the  Semitic  race  and,  therefore,  the  work 
waits  upon  us — is  'in  our  midst.' " 

"Christian  Science  books  are  not  on  sale  here;  I  en- 
quired," volunteered  Arthur. 

"Not  if  your  church  can  prevent  it,"  said  Gordon. 
"The  preachers  don't  want  competition  any  more  than  Doc, 
here,  wants  a  faith  healer  'round." 

"But  think  of  the  millions  who  will  never  hear  of 
Christian  Science  at  all,"  pursued  Nancy,  "even  though 
they  could  buy  the  books.  Shouldn't  there  be  some  way  in 
which  everyone  can  have  an  equal  chance  to  be  healed? — 
and  without  having  to  pay  for  the  remedy?  No  one  asked 
to  be  born;  no  one  wanted  life.  If  they  had,  they  would 
have  chosen  a  life  that  would  be  free  from  sickness  and 
pain, — and  sorrow,  and  death." 

"Right,  O!"  cried  Gordon.  "A  sick  man  isn't  hanker- 
ing for  a  thousand  pages  of  theology.  All  he  wants  is  one 
leaf  from  the  tree  of  life;  and  he  wants  it  quick!" 

Doctor  Rogers  crackled  a  match  on  the  porch  rail  to 
light  a  fresh  cigar. 

"That  quack  preacher  at  the  Second  church  needs  you," 
said  he,  to  Gordon,  with  a  sneer.  "He  imagines  he's  got  the 
tree;  and  you  could  pick  off  imaginary  leaves  at  a  dollar  a 
pick." 

"He  doesn't  even  take  up  a  collection,  Doctor  Rogers," 
ventured  Perry  with  a  touch  of  juvenile  reproach. 

"But,  Perry,  grandpa  says  he's  a  fake ;  and  he  ought  to 
know,"  said  Maidie,  confirmatively.  "Grandpa  says  the 
doctors  are  ministering  angels;  and  if  the  sick  people  die, 
it's  because  God  wants  to  take  them  home  to  heaven." 

"Let  me  feel !"  said  Gordon,  pinching  the  doctor's 
shoulders,  to  see  if  his  wings  had  begun  to  sprout.  Doctor 
Rogers  laughed,  good-naturedly. 


NEW  TOWN  321 

"Professionally,  I  disagree  with  the  Reverend  Obed 
Swallow,"  he  confessed.  "The  good  Lord  won't  get  any 
of  my  patients  if  I  can  keep  'em  here." 

"Wonder  why  God  had  to  use  a  tape  worm  to  take  Mrs. 
Remming  to  heaven,"  mused  Nancy,  with  a  trace  of  sacre- 
ligious  scarcasm.  But  a  flash  of  memory  dashed  the  smile 
from  her  lips — a  scene  in  a  night  camp  on  the  Ahtanum 
range,  years  ago :  Dick,  in  convulsions,  dying  from  a  bite  of 
a  snake.  God's  way,  indeed ! 

"God's  way,  indeed !"  exclaimed  Payne,  as  though  he 
read  her  thought.  "God's  way,  indeed ! — that  men  shall  die, 
and  women's  hearts  shall  break! — their  children  go  to  hell! 
— that  God  may  take  the  parents  home  to  heaven!  It  is  a 
cowardly  creed  of  a  cowardly  priesthood,  to  hide  their  spir- 
itual malpractice  and  degenerate  faith  behind  a  bulwark  of 
sham  divinity!" 

"Here  comes  Mr.  Cohen,"  said  Perry,  as  a  man  stopped 
at  the  gate,  hesitated  a  moment,  then  came  slowly  up  the 
walk. 

The  twilight  was  getting  deeper  and  the  blue-white 
peaks,  rising  above  the  foothills,  were  sharply  outlined 
against  the  darker  blue  background. 

Payne  went  down  the  steps  to  meet  his  fellow  traveller 
of  the  day  before,  and  introduced  him  to  the  others. 

"What  a  long  twilight  you  have  here,  Mrs.  Swallow," 
he  said,  turning  to  the  ladies.  "It  was  fully  three  hours 
last  night  after  the  sun  went  down,  before  it  was  dark.  I 
was  thinking  how  much  the  Eastern  cities  should  envy  you." 

"I  dare  say  we  do  not  properly  appreciate  the  beauties 
of  our  scenery  here,"  she  answered.  "Mr.  Payne  spoke  of 
the  sunset  immediately  on  his  arrival." 

"I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  let  me  have  his  company  for 
a  while,"  said  the  Jew.  "I  am  going  for  a  walk  about  the 


322  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

town,  and,  as  I  reached  New  Town  ahead  of  him,  it  be- 
comes my  duty  to  show  him  around." 

"Is  it  settled  thait  you  are  to  take  care  of  me?"  Payne 
asked,  turning  to  Nancy. 

"I  will  try  to  give  you  better  accommodation  than  you 
used  to  get  in  the  railroad  camps,"  she  said,  with  a  smile. 

"Mamma,  dear,  tell  us  about  your  knowing  Mr.  Payne 
so  many  years  ago,"  Maidie  said,  as  the  two  men  went  down 
the  path. 

"Sometime,  Maidie,  not  now."  She  rose  and  went  into 
the  house  and  Maidie  again  took  up  her  guitar. 


CHAPTER  XL 
THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL 

"A  typical  Western  town,  this,"  said  Payne  when  he 
and  Cohen  were  in  the  street.  "Just  natural,  half-done  hu- 
man beings  who  seem  to  wonder  why  they  came,  and  care 
not  when  nor  where  they  go." 

"It  requires  the  tragedies  of  life  to  waken  one  to  the 
reality  of  his  existence,"  said  Cohen. 

"There  has  been  tragedy  in  the  lives  of  those  two 
women  I  was  talking  with  tonight.  It  is  remarkable  that  I 
should  find  in  one  of  them  the  little  girl  I  lost  in  the  West- 
ern desert  more  than  twenty  years  ago.  Her  father  was  Pat 
Weatherbee,  one  of  the  contractors  on  the  Central  Pacific. 
She  hasn't  heard  from  him  for  nearly  twenty  years." 

"Weatherbee  ?  Weatherbee  ?"  mused  the  Jew.  "I  know 
a  man  by  that  name  in  San  Francisco.  He  was  a  contractor, 
I  believe,  too ;  but  last  I  knew  of  him  he  ran  a  tough  joint  up 
near  the  docks  and  was  a  sort  of  clearing  house  for  the  City 
Hall  gang.  When  I  get  back  there  I  will  look  him  up." 

"Just  as  well  you  don't,  maybe,  if  it  should  be  the  same 
man.  The  daughter  seems  to  be  comfortably  settled  here, 
and  might  not  be  thankful  to  learn  her  father  was  of  that 
character." 

"The  Heath  boy,"  said  Cohen,  "has  been  telling  me  the 
history  of  some  of  the  villagers.  It  seems  Mrs.  Swallow's 
husband  died  from  a  rattlesnake  bite,  a  year  or  two  after 
their  marriage,  and  a  brother-in-law,  named,  Burke  Chan- 


324  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

ning,  disappeared  about  the  same  time.  Never  was  heard  of 
again.  The  ranchers  thought  he  had  been  killed  by  some 
redskins  from  the  Reservation,  and  came  near  lynching 
them.  Peculiar  thing  about  it  is  that  a  fellow  named  Burke, 
who  was  a  runner  for  a  hotel  up  in  Barbary  Coast,  used 
to  live  in  Old  Town,  and  it  was  from  him  I  got  the  in- 
formation that  brought  me  here." 

"It  would  be  strange  if  it  should  so  happen  that  you 
could  find  both  the  missing  men,"  said  Payne.  "I  shall  be 
going  to  Frisco  myself  within  a  day  or  two  and  I  will  see 
if  I  can  find  him." 

"Here's  the  address  of  the  hotel  this  fellow  Burke 
worked  for  a  few  months  ago." 

"I'll  get  some  information  about  him  before  I  leave," 
said  Payne,  putting  the  card  in  his  pocket. 

"Have  you  given  any  more  thought  to  the  subject  of 
our  discussion  on  the  train  yesterday?"  Cohen  asked. 

"About  the  restoration  of  Israel?" 

"Yes,  and  the  preparation  of  the  way  by  Elijah." 

"I  find  you  are  right  about  the  Christian  Testament 
requiring  that  Elijah  come  again,"  said  Payne.  "I  com- 
pared the  fourteenth  verse  of  the  eleventh  chapter  of  Mat- 
thew with  the  Greek  text,  and  it  reads,  'He  is  Elijah  who  is 
to  come.'  Strange  that  the  incorrect  translation  has  never 
been  discussed  among  theologians." 

"I  will  tell  you  something  else  they  haven't  seen,"  said 
the  Jew.  "The  'commandment  to  restore,'  mentioned  in 
the  ninth  of  Daniel,  which  is  to  begin  the  four  hundred  and 
ninety  year  restoration  period,  was  to  go  to  Elijah.  The 
Hebrew  word,  there,  translated  'restore,'  is  shub, — the  same 
word  used  in  Malachi's  prophecy  of  Elijah's  coming,  and 
there  translated  'turn.'  Elijah  was  to  receive  that  com- 
mandment to  'turn  back  Israel.' " 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  32* 

"  'And  many  of  the  children  of  Israel  shall  he  turn 
unto  the  Lord,  their  God,'  "  Payne  quoted,  from  the  first 
chapter  of  Luke's  Gospel. 

"You  are  speaking  of  John  Baptist,"  said  Cohen. 
"Compare  the  Message  given  to  John,  through  his  father, 
Zacharias,  by  the  angel  Gabriel,  with  Gabriel's  words  to 
Daniel  'From  the  going  forth  of  the  commandment  to  turn 
back  Israel.'  In  the  chapter  you  are  quoting  from,  you 
will  find,  there,  Gabriel  giving  this  very  'commandment  to 
restore/  and  saying  that  John  Baptist  is  to  do  that  work  as 
Elijah." 

"In  which  case,"  said  Payne,  thoughtfully,  "the  proph- 
ecy of  the  Restoraton  had  not  been  fulfilled  up  to  the  begin- 
ning of  the  Christian  era.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  an 
error  to  connect  the  return  of  the  Jews  from  Babylon,  under 
the  decree  of  Darius,  with  Ezekiel's  prophecy  for  the  restor- 
ation of  the  twelve  tribes.  Practically,  only  two  tribes  of 
Israel  were  there.  The  other  ten  tribes  are  still  'lost.' " 

"Yes;  and  after  the  two  tribes  had  returned,  and  the 
Temple  was  rebuilt,  Jesus  came  to  call  back  the  ten  tribes. 
He,  himself,  said  he  'was  not  sent  except  to  the  lost  sheep 
of  the  house  of  Israel.'  His  disciples  understood  this  to  be 
his  Mission;  but  he  told  them  Elijah  must  come  again. 
Peter,  afterward,  declared  that  Jesus  would  remain  in  heaven 
until  the  times  of  the  Restoration  shall  have  begun.  I  think 
most  of  the  commentators  were  led  ifito  error  by  attempt- 
ing to  connect  the  words  in  Daniel,  ' — the  Messiah  shall  be 
cut  off/  with  the  Crucifixion.  It  refers  to  the  next  betrayal, 
at  the  close  of  the  Restoration,  when  the  treacherous  host 
turns  him  over  to  the  armies  of  the  nations,  and  he  'is 
caught  up  to  God  and  His  throne,'  as  told  in  the  twelfth 
chapter  of  Revelation.  It  is  to  come  near  the  close  of  the 
Restoration  period,  about  seven  years  from  the  end.  In 


326  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

this  the  Book  of  Daniel  and  the  Book  of  Revelation  are  in 
agreement;  and  the  entire  Book  of  Revelation  covers  only  a 
seven  year  period — the  last  shabbua  of  the  Restoration 
period." 

"You  will  pardon  me,  Mr.  Cohen,  if  I  express  my  sur- 
prise at  your  familiarity  with  the  New  Testament.  I  have 
never  before  found  a  Jew  who  had  even  read  it." 

"Had  they  done  so,"  said  Cohen,  "they  had  found  there 
the  very  defense  they  have  needed  through  all  these  cen- 
turies, to  defend  them  against  the  persecutions  by  ignorant 
and  fanatical  Christians.  They  had  found  there  that  the  Jews 
had  no  alternative  but  to  reject  Jesus  of  Nazareth  as  the 
Messiah." 

"Why,  what  do  you  refer  to?"  Payne  asked,  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Listen!"  said  the  Jew  in  an  earnest  tone.  "Did  not 
Malachi  say,  'Elijah  shall  come  first — that  he  shall  prepare 
the  way  for  the  Messiah  ?'  " 

"  'He,  it  is,  of  whom  it  is  written,  He  shall  prepare  the 
way  before  me/  "  Payne  quoted,  recalling  Jesus'  words  con- 
cerning John  the  Baptist. 

"Absolutely!"  said  Cohen.  "But  John  didn't  prepare 
the  way.  He  denied  he  was  the  man — the  Elijah — whom  the 
angel  Gabriel  said  he  should  be;  and  having  denied  his  Mis- 
sion, having  declared  he  was  not  Elijah,  how  in  the  name  of 
God  could  any  godly  Jew  believe  upon  Jesus  as  the  Messiah 
whom  they  were  looking  for?" 

"Why — why — "  Payne  stammered,  "you  astonish  me! 
John  denied  he  was  Elijah?" 

"Absolutely!  Have  you  never  read  in  the  first  chapter 
of  the  Gospel  of  John? — how  'the  Jews  sent  the  priests  and 
Levites  to  John  Baptist  to  ask  him  'Art  thou  Elijah?  Art 
thou  that  prophet?'  And  John  answered,  'No!'  How  in 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  327 

the  name  of  all  your  Christianity  could  the  Jews  scripturally 
accept  Jesus,  or  any  man  as  the  Messiah,  when  there  was  no 
Elijah  come?" 

"But  John  the  Baptist  was  the  Elijah— it  tells  us." 

'I,  too,  say  he  was.  I  believe  from  the  evidence  in  your 
Christian  Testament  that  John  did  receive  the  command- 
ment to  begin  the  four  hundred  and  ninety  year  restoration 
period ;  that  he  did  receive  that  Commission  as  Elijah.  But 
he  denied  that  Mission.  He  told  the  Jews  he  was  not 
Elijah,  and  with  that  lie  he  betrayed  God,  he  betrayed  the 
Jews,  he  betrayed  the  very  Son  of  God !  That  cowardly  lie 
of  John  the  Baptist  caused  the  rejection  and  crucifixon  of 
your  Man  of  Gallilee!" 

Payne  stopped  short  and  stared  at  Cohen,  dumbfound- 
edly. 

"Oh,  but  it  is  a  cruel,  cruel  truth,"  said  the  Jew  bit- 
terly, "coming  to  us,  now,  after  all  these  centuries.  But  it 
is  not  my  word  I  give  you.  Read  the  words  of  your  Jesus, 
who  said  of  John — after  John  had  denied  he  was  Elijah, 
after  he  had  proclaimed  the  angel  Gabriel  a  liar —  after  God 
Himself  had  turned  away  from  John,  leaving  him  to  his  fate 
in  Herod's  hands.  Jesus  said,  'No  greater  prophet  hath  been 
born  of  woman  than  John  the  Baptist.  Nevertheless,  he 
has  become  the  least  of  all  men.'  My  God!  What  a  fall 
that  was! — from  the  highest  prophet  to  the  lowest  of  man- 
kind!— and  because  he  had  denied  the  greatest  Mission  ever 
given  of  God  to  man — to  prepare  the  way  for  the  Redeemer 
to  come  to  Zion!  It  is  no  wonder  Jesus  said  Elijah  must 
come  again!  John  had  brought  the  restoration  to  a  sudden 
end.  Gabriel  had  told  Daniel,  'from  the  going  forth  of 
the  commandment  to  turn  back,  there  would  be  forty-nine 
years  to  the  Messiah' — forty-nine  years  of  preparation  be- 
fore the  Messiah  should  be  revealed.  But  John  died  at 
thirty-one.  He  did  not  prepare  the  way." 


328  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Yes,"  said  Payne,  softly,  "he  died,  deserted  of  God,  de- 
serted of  Jesus,  himself,  whom  he  had  declared  the  Mes- 
siah." 

"And  that  declaration,  violating  the  sacred  command  of 
prophecy,  caused  the  crucifixion  of  the  Messiah!"  said 
Cohen. 

"'Of  the  Messiah!'  Payne  echoed,  astounded.  "Do 
you  believe  Jesus  was  the  Redeemer  sent  to  Zion?" 

"I  do!  I  believe  it  now.  I  believe  if  John  the  Bap- 
tist had  said,  'Yes !  I  am  Elijah !  I  am  the  preparer  of  the 
way!  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at  hand!  The  Messiah 
will  be  revealed  just  forty-nine  years  from  the  day  the 
angel  Gabriel,  through  my  father,  gave  me  this  command- 
ment to  turn  back  Israel !' — if  he  had  said  that — there  would 
have  been  no  crucifixion.  For  no  one  would  have  known 
that  Jesus  was  the  Man,  until  the  way  had  been  prepared 
so  completely  Rome  would  have  had  no  power  to  crucify 
him.  And  Jesus  of  Nazareth  would  have  restored  Israel. 
I  believe  it  now.  It  was  John's  denial  that  caused  the  re- 
jection of  Jesus.  And  the  Jews  were  scripturally  right  in 
refusing  to  dccept  a  Messiah  who  knew  he  could  not  fulfill 
his  Mission." 

"As  you  see  it,"  said  Payne,  "the  first  forty-nine  years 
of  the  four  hundred  and  ninety  year  period  must  be  for  the 
preparation  of  the  way  for  the  Messiah's  coming.  Malachi 
said,  'Behold,  I  send  my  messenger,  and  he  shall  prepare 
the  way.'  What  do  you  understand  this  'preparation  of  the 
way'  to  mean?" 

There's  a  book  of  the  Talmud  which  deals  with  this 
subject.  I  do  not  believe  it  has  ever  been  translated  from 
the  Hebrew,  and  is  practically  unknown.  It  gives  the  first 
step  to  be  taken  in  the  'preparation  of  the  way.'  It  is  'to 
restrain  from  the  transgression  of  the  laws' — the  laws  of 
Israel,  of  course.  There  is  only  one  practical  method  for 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  329 

doing  this — and  it  was  first  established  by  the  early  house 
of  Israel.  It  is  for  Elijah  to  keep  all  the  land  of  the  New 
Kingdom,  in  one  ownership,  and  give  leases  instead  of 
deeds.  One  of  the  traditions  of  the  Hebrews  was,  that  the 
land  never  should  be  sold  in  fee,  as,  in  such  cases,  the  gov- 
ernment could  not  restrain  the  people  from  doing  evil.  But 
with  leases,  the  laws  were  put  in  as  covenants  to  which  the 
purchaser  must  affix  his  signature,  agreeing  to  keep  the 
laws,  under  penalty  of  forfeiture  of  his  residence.  This 
automatically  restrains  all  from  transgression  of  the  laws. 
I've  been  thinking  that,  when  the  United  States  became  a 
nation,  if  they  had  done  the  same  thing — had  never  sold 
the  land  in  fee,  but  issued,  say,  five  thousand  year  leases, 
there  wouldn't  be  much  law  breaking  in  this  country." 

"Why,  that  is  a  remarkable  thought !"  Payne  exclaimed. 

"No  doubt  about  it,  in  my  mind,"  said  Cohen.  "And, 
when  Elijah  comes  he  will  build  a  city  for  the  Messiah,  a 
city  where  all  shall,  willingly,  be  restrained  from  breaking 
the  law.  He  will  put  the  Ten  Commandments,  as  leasehold 
covenants,  in  every  lease." 

"Then  you  believe  the  four  hundred  and  ninety  year 
period  does  not  begin  until  Elijah — the  Elijah,  Jesus  said 
must  come — gets  'the  commandment  to  restore  ?' ' 

"Absolutely!  And,  after  forty-nine  years  of  prepara- 
tion, the  Messiah  will  become  the  leader,  and  will  lead  for 
over  434  years.  This  is  what  Gabriel  told  Daniel." 

"Then,  as  you  see  it,  if  a  man,  claiming  to  be  the 
'Elijah,'  shall  build  a  city  under  leasehold  covenants  which 
include  the  Ten  Commandments  of  Israel,  it  will  be  a  sign 
that  the  second  coming  is  at  hand." 

"Positively!  But,  wait  a  moment.  Your  parable  of 
the  'Ten  Virgins'  symbolizes  the  second  advent — not  the 
third  coming,  as  is  being  taught  by  your  theologians.  It  re- 


330  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

quires  that  the  very  time,  place  and  manner  of  the  Messiah's 
coming  shall  be  declared,  else  the  'Virgins'  would  not  go  out 
to  meet  him.  Yet,  it  tell  us  in  that  parable,  that  he  will 
'tarry,' — that  he  will  not  appear  at  the  time  designated,  but 
will  wait  till  the  'midnight  hour,'  the  hour  when  all  who  had 
knowledge  of  the  declaration  will  have  soundly  forgotten  it. 
However,  the  time  set  for  his  appearing  should  be,  proph- 
etically, exactly  forty-nine  years  from  the  time  the  next 
'Elijah'  shall  receive  a  divine  inspiration  that  shall  cause 
him  to  begin  a  'preparation  of  the  way.'  Anyone  who  shall 
know  the  day  that  the  'commandment'  went  out  to  'the 
Elijah  who  is  to  come,'  will  be  able  to  declare  the  very  time 
appointed  for  the  Messiah's  coming.  I  do  not  find  that  any- 
one has  ever  set  the  time,  place  and  the  manner  of  his  ap- 
pearing. Some,  ignorant  of  the  original  texts  of  the 
prophecies,  have  set  the  time  for  the  'end  of  the  world'  and 
the  resurrection,  mistakingly  believing  that  'the  end'  comes 
with  the  next  coming  of  their  Jesus.  Why,  the  very  proph- 
ecy of  the  second  coming,  given  in  the  first  chapter  of  Acts, 
emphatically  states  that  'he  shall  so  come  in  like  manner  as 
they  beheld  him  going  into  heaven.'  As  there  was  no  resur- 
rection— no  important  manifestation  of  any  nature  at  the 
time  of  the  Ascension  there  described,  it  is  quite  likely  few, 
if  any,  will  see  the  next  coming.  Scarcely  any  of  the  the- 
ologians of  today  appear  to  know  that  both  the  Old  and 
New  Testaments  of  the  Christian  Bible  tell  us  of  three 
advents." 

"I  have  never  heard  of  it,  and  confess  I  have  not  seen 
any  such  prophecy,"  said  Payne. 

"In  Paul's  second  letter  to  the  Thessalonians,  he  says 
the  Messiah  'will  be  revealed  in  the  heavens  with  his  angels 
in  flaming  fire.'  In  the  twenty-fourth  of  Matthew,  Jesus 
tells  his  disciples  the  signs  that  shall  follow  his  coming,  not 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  331 

precede  him,  as  some  have  mistakingly  assumed.  The  dis- 
ciples did  not  ask  him  for  signs  of  his  coming,  but  the  signs 
that  would  show  he  had  come.  And  after  giving  some  events 
as  logical  proof  of  his  presence,  and  his  second  ascension, 
he  pictures,  as  a  final  climax,  the  'coming  of  the  Son  of  man 
upon  the  clouds  of  heaven.'  Again,  in  the  nineteenth  of 
Revelation,  John  pictures  the  third  advent  with  the  Messiah 
on  a  white  horse.  In  neither  of  these  writings  can  the  second 
advent  be  meant,  as  the  next  coming  is  to  be  'in  like  manner 
as  they  saw  him  going  into  heaven.'  Moreover,  in  the  third 
of  Acts  we  are  told  that  the  Lord  Jehovah  will  send  the 
Messiah,  at  the  next  coming ;  while  in  the  seventh  of  Daniel 
and  in  some  of  the  chapters  of  Revelation,  we  find  that  at 
the  time  of  the  more  spectacular  advent,  the  Lord  Jehovah 
will,  Himself,  have  come." 

"I  was  once  told,  by  a  Hebrew  scholar,  it  was  an  an- 
cient belief  of  Israel  that  the  Messiah  would  be  received  by 
exactly  eight  men,"  said  Payne. 

"Yes,  that  is  believed  by  many  of  the  best  Hebrew 
scholars,  as  it  is  so  foretold  in  the  third  chapter  of  Zechariah, 
and  confirmed  in  the  fourth  chapter  of  that  prophet's  writ- 
ings. No  doubt  in  my  mind,  whatever,  that  had  John  the 
Baptist  loyally  fulfilled  his  Commission,  he  would  have  been 
the  'Joshua'  there  mentioned  as  the  high  priest  to  receive  the 
Stone  of  Israel,  along  with  the  other  seven  men  whom  Zech- 
ariah calls  'men  of  wonder.'  That  prophecy  has  not  yet  been 
fulfilled,  and  may,  quite  consistently,  be  the  manner  of  the 
next  coming,  according  to  the  New  Testament  record,  also." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Payne,  thoughtfully,  "it  is  because 
these  eight  men  will  not  be  ready  to  receive  him,  that  he  will 
not  come  at  the  appointed  time,  and  will  then  wait  till  every- 
one has  forgotten  about  it." 

"That  may  be  true — I  had  not  thought  of  it.     But,  re- 


332  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

cently,  I  found  in  a  book  of  the  Talmud  an  opinion  of  a 
writer  that  the  time,  place  and  manner  of  the  Messiah's 
coming  will  be  declared  by  two  witnesses,  and  refers  to  the 
fourth  chapter  of  Zechariah  as  authority.  That  prophet  did 
call  attention  to  two  sets  of  two  witnesses  each,  one  being 
the  'sons  of  the  golden  oil/  and  the  other  'sons  of  the  clear 
oil.'  The  two  'sons  of  the  clear  oil'  are,  in  that  chapter, 
closely  identified  with  the  two  witnesses  mentioned  in  the 
eleventh  chapter  of  Revelation,  who  are  to  witness  to  the 
coming  of  the  Lord  Jehovah,  Himself.  In  each  case  the 
testimony  of  the  witnesses  is  to  be  given  immediately  pre- 
ceding the  advent.  I  think  if  protestant  Bible  students  had 
seen  that  the  entire  Book  of  Revelation  deals  only  with  a 
period  of  seven  years — the  last  seven  years  of  the  490  year 
period  which  is  to  begin  with  the  next  Elijah,  they  should 
have  seen  that  both  Jehovah  God  and  the  Messiah  are  to  be 
here  on  earth  during  the  thousand  years  which  follow  the 
resurrection.  The  fourteenth  chapter  of  Zechariah  and  the 
twenty-third  of  Isaiah  assure  us  that  our  God,  Himself,  will 
come.  The  seventh  of  Daniel  and  one  of  the  chapters  in 
Revelation  give  us  a  vision  of  the  coming  of  the  Messiah 
after  the  Lord  Jehovah  has  come." 

"Cohen,"  said  Payne,  earnestly,  "if  you  are  right — 
and  I  believe  you  are — all  the  books  yet  written  on  the  ninth 
of  Daniel,  can  be  junked.  They  are  not  worth  the  price  of 
the  paper  wasted  in  their  making.  But  is  it  not  strange  that 
so  many  have  thought  the  resurrection  occurs  at  the  coming 
of  Christ?  I  confess  I  have  thought  so." 

"There's  not  a  line  in  the  New  Testament  that  supports 
this  doctrine.  I  will  tell  you  something:  In  the  English 
translation  of  the  Hebrew  Scripture,  you  will  find  the  word, 
'Lord'  capitalized.  It  signifies  that  the  word,  Adonoi, 
was  substituted  for  the  Hebrew  name  of  God,  Jehovah.  In 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  333 

the  Greek  Testament  every  Hebrew  writing  originally  must 
have  shown  the  same  word  in  capitals,  when  referring  to 
God,  Himself.  Translators,  ignorant  probably  of  this  sig- 
nification, did  not  capitalize  the  Greek  equivalent,  Kurios, 
and  thus  the  word,  'Lord,'  standing  for  Jehovah  in  many 
places,  has  been  thought  to  refer  to  Jesus.  This  error  of 
interpretation  is  conspicuous  in  Paul's  first  Letter  to  the 
Thessalonians,  where  he  spoke  of  the  resurrection  of  the 
dead.  The  words  'the  Lord,'  there,  was,  originally,  Adonoi, 
in  capital  letters.  It  stood  for  Jehovah.  Paul  usually  said 
'Our  Lord,'  when  referring  to  Jesus.  It  is  the  Lord  Je- 
hovah, Himself,  who  is  to  come  down  from  heaven  and 
cause  the  resurrection.  And  this  does  not  take  place  until 
the  four  hundred  and  ninety  years  of  restoration  are  ful- 
filled— until  the  descendants  of  the  twelve  tribes  are  again 
at  Palestine,  and  are  being  trodden  down  by  the  armies  of 
the  nations. 

"You  believe  they  are  to  be  led  back  to  Palestine  under 
the  Messiah  himself  ?" 

"Absolutely!  They  must  wait  for  Elijah  to  come.  If 
they  start  back  to  Palestine  without  Elijah,  without  the  Mes- 
siah, they  will  have,  now,  no  excuse  for  disobeying  the  Word 
of  the  Eternal  God,  who  said,  'I  will  send  you  Elijah  the 
prophet  and  he  shall  prepare  the  way.'  This  second  coming 
of  the  Messiah  is  to  do  the  same  work  that  he  was  not  able 
to  do  before :  He  will  bring  together  the  descendants  of  the 
twelve  sons  of  Jacob.  .  I  am  surprised  that  your  Christian 
scholars  have  never  seen  the  importance  of  this  restoration. 
They  would  have  seen  how  they  are  interfering  with  the 
plan  of  God  in  bringing  into  their  churches  men  and  women 
who  are  not  of  the  Semitic  race  at  all — not  descendants  of 
Adam." 

"Then  you  would  say  that  a  church  which  is  catholic  is 


334  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

contrary  to  the  divine  plan  and  cannot  be  a  Christian 
church,"  Payne  said. 

"The  word  'catholic'  is  a  contradiction  of  Messianic 
purpose,  and  the  time  will  come  when  every  man  who  be- 
lieves himself  to  be  a  descendant  of  Jacob  will  come  out  of 
a  church  that  takes  in  all  races.  Otherwise,  they  will  have 
no  part  in  the  restoration — the  greatest  event  of  the  whole 
plan  of  God.  Inasmuch  as  all  these  twelve  families  are  rep- 
resented more  extensively  in  the  United  States  than  any 
other  country,  it  seems  logical  that  the  restoration  will  begin 
here.  It  is  also  logical  to  say  it  will  begin  with  the  building 
of  a  city.  However,  there'll  be  a  sign  which,  should  you  be 
living  when  these  things  come  to  pass,  will  assure  you  that 
the  advent  is  close  at  hand.  Following  a  declaration  which 
shall  give  the  time,  place  and  manner  of  the  Messiah's 
coming — which,  of  course,  must  wait  upon  Elijah's  prepar- 
ation of  the  way — the  Jews  of  every  nationality  and 
remarkably  in  the  United  States  and  in  England,  where 
they  have  been  welcomed  more  honestly  than  elsewhere,  shall 
become  the  target  for  a  most  uncalled-for  persecution  and 
abuse,  instigated  and  perpetrated  by  fanatical  members  of 
Christian  churches.  They  will  have  to  endure  prejudice  and 
intolerance,  unprecedented  in  these  countries,  on  the  part  of 
men  and  women  who,  although  of  the  same  flesh  and  blood 
as  the  Jew,  have  never  understood  that  the  word,  'Jew,' 
denotes  a  religion — not  a  nationality — the  very  religion  of 
Jesus,  whom  they  call,  God,  and  of  Mary  the  mother  of 
him  they  call  Christ.  Any  man  can  become  a  Jew ;  but  only 
descendants  of  Adam  will  participate  in  the  fulfillment  of 
the  restoration  prophecies." 

"Why,"  said  Payne,  reflectively,  "here  is  a  remarkable 
thought:  that  this  belief  should  be  a  common  ground  on 
which  the  Christians  and  the  Jews  can  come  together ; — the 


THE  HOPE  OF  ISRAEL  335 

Christians,  seeing  that  John's  denial  made  impossible  the 
acceptance  of  Jesus ;  the  Jews  agreeing  that  Jesus  may  have 
been  their  long-looked- for  Messiah,  who,  having  had  no 
place  prepared  that  he  might  call  his  own,  confessed  the 
failure  of  his  Mission;  and  let  himself  be  killed,  to  prove 
that  men  may  pass  through  death,  and  live  again." 

"When  that  day  comes,"  said  Cohen,  with  great  earnest- 
ness, "Judaism  will  pass  away,  and  Christianity  remain  only 
as  a  hideous  nightmare  to  the  world — both  swept  away  by 
the  Zion  of  humanity  which  shall  surely  be  established  on 
earth." 

They  had  paused  at  the  Heath  gate. 

Payne  looked  into  the  other's  face,  truth-fired  and  bright 
burning  with  conviction. 

"A  tremendous  thought!  A  wonderful  possibility!"  he 
exclaimed. 

In  the  Jew's  dark  eyes  quick  tears  had  come,  glistening 
in  the  glancing  rays  of  the  far-off  stars. 

"Then !  then !"  he  cried,  his  hands  reached  out  as  though 
clutching  at  these  hopes  of  twenty  martyr  centuries,  "then, 
the  world  shall  learn  that  God  never  gave  His  glory  to  an- 
other!— never  gave  His  son  for  man  to  crucify! — never 
built  a  church  for  Assyrian  popes,  whose  light  was  to  be  the 
fires  of  inquisition! — whose  creeds  hatch  hatreds  in  human 
hearts! — that  spilled  Love  in  the  altar  fires,  and  swept  like 
an  evil  scourge  through  a  thousand  awful  years! — racked, 
raped  and  tortured,  in  the  name  of  Him  their  soldiers  cru- 
cified !  Then !  then !  your  idol-worshipping  Christianity  shall 
learn  that  to  carry  about  a  Roman  cross  has  been  but  a 
shameless  boast  of  a  Roman  victory,  when  their  Assyrian 
ancestors  killed  the  Man  of  Gallilee!" 

Awestruck,  Payne  could  not  answer.     When,  finally,  he 
found  his  voice,  the  Jew  was  going  up  the  gravelled  walk. 


CHAPTER  XLI 
"JOHN  LIED!" 

When  Payne  returned  to  the  Swallow's,  he  found  Nancy 
in  the  sitting  room.  He  asked  to  see  an  album  of  family 
photographs,  and  she  named  the  various  persons  whose  pic- 
tures were  there. 

When  she  showed  him  one  of  Burke  Channing,  he 
looked  at  it,  intently. 

Nancy  told  him  about  the  sudden  disappearance  of  her 
brother-in-law,  and  of  the  attempted  lynching  of  the  three 
Indians. 

"I  don't  believe  Channing  is  dead,"  he  said.  "I  believe 
he  is  in  San  Francisco.  If  he  is  the  man  I  have  in  mind,  he 
has  become  a  dissolute  wretch,  and  his  family  might  not  care 
to  own  him." 

"No,  no,  Tom;  don't  say  that!  If  we  could  get  him 
home  we — maybe  we  could  help  him  be  a  man  again.  Do 
you  really  think  it  is  he?" 

"I  will  look  up  the  man  when  I  go  to  Frisco  again.  I'll 
let  you  know." 

"I  would  go  myself,  and  bring  him  back."  she  said. 

Later,  they  went  out  on  the  veranda,  where  the  moon- 
light had  begun  to  filter  through  the  rose-vines.  They  sat 
there  quietly  listening  to  the  song  which  Maidie  and  Arthur 


"JOHN  LIED!"  337 

were  singing  together,  hardly  louder  than  the  notes  of  the 
guitar: 

"Just  a  song  at  twilight,  when  the  lights  are  low, 
And  the  flickering  shadows  softly  come  and  go " 

For  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  Nancy  and  her  girlhood 
friend,  sat  quietly  listening  to  one  song  after  another,  songs 
of  love,  that  send  a  breath  of  love  and  tenderness  into  the 
hearts  of  others.  Then  Arthur  took  the  guitar  from  Maidie's 
hands,  and  struck  a  different  chord : 

"Nearer  my  God  to  Thee;  nearer  to  Thee: 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross  that  beckons  me." 

As  they  sang  this  old,  familiar  hymn,  Nancy  leaned 
forward.  She  seemed  to  feel  a  significance  in  the  words. 
She  was  sitting  close  to  Payne,  and,  as  though  she  feared 
he  might  stir,  or  speak,  and  break  the  spell,  she  laid  a  hand 
upon  his  arm,  resting  on  the  arm  of  his  chair. 

When  the  boy  and  girl  had  finished  the  duet,  and  had 
gone  into  the  house,  Nancy  looked  up  and  found  Payne 
regarding  her  curiously.  She  felt  he  must  be  reading. her 
thoughts. 

"Do  you  believe  in  God,  Tom? — you,  who  know  so 
much  about  the  world  and  of — of  things?" 

He  was  touched  by  the  piteousness  in  her  voice. 

"And  do  you  not?"  he  asked,  wonderingly. 

"I — I  don't  know.  There  is  so  much  I  don't  under- 
stand— so  much  I  can't  believe."  She  rested  her  chin  on 
the  palm  of  her  hand,  and  stared  out  into  the  moonlight. 

He  did  not  answer ;  in  truth,  he  did  not  know  just  what 
to  say. 


338  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"If  everything  is  true  in  the  Bible — or  what  the  min- 
isters read  out  of  the  Bible,  is  true,"  she  went  on,  delib- 
eratingly,  "I  should  hate  to  believe  He  will  have  anything 
to  do  with — with  any  other  world  that — that  I  may  have  to 
go  to,  as  they  say.  He  seems  to  have  made  an  awful  mess 
of  this.  Can't  He  do  anything?  or  don't  He  care?  Has 
everybody  always  had  to  suffer,  and  be  sick,  and — and  be 
burned  to  death,  perhaps,  and — and  go  without  everything, 
or  what  you  want  most  of  all?  I  don't  see  how  anyone  is 
to  know  God  was." 

For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  she  did  not  mind. 
She  did  not  expect  an  answer. 

"Mrs.  Swallow,"  he  said,  presently,  "if  you  could  see 
the  misery  of  the  world,  as  I  have  seen  it;  if  you  could  know 
the  millions  of  hearts  that  are  aching,  because  of  ignorance, 
of  sickness,  of  the  most  awful  afflictions;  who  have  longed 
to  fulfill  the  purpose  of  life,  but  have  never  had  a  chance. 
When  you  have  known  some  of  the  millions  who  have  lived 
without  friendship,  without  sympathy,  without  love,  but 
with  all  the  inborn  yearning  of  human  hearts  for  the  natural 
joy  of  living,  and  have  gone  into  despair,  to  be  swept  away 
by  death — when  you  have  seen  something  of  this,  you  will 
know  that  God  was,  and  that  He  is,  and  that,  someday,  He 
must  disentangle  this  awful  snarl  of  human  lives,  and  give 
humanity  another  chance." 

She  did  not  ask  anything  more.  Presently  he  said  good 
night,  and  went  into  the  house. 

In  his  room,  Payne  opened  his  suitcase  and  took  out  his 
Bible,  well  thumbed  and  pencil  marked.  He  turned  to  the 
first  chapter  of  Luke,  and  read : 

"Thou  shalt  call  his  name  John  ....  For  he 
shall  be  great  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  ....  And  he 


''JOHN  LIED!"  339 

shall  go  before  his  face  in  the  spirit  and  power  of  Elijah, 
to  turn  the  hearts  of  the  fathers  to  the  children." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  last  chapter  of  Malachi. 

"Behold  I  will  send  you  Elijah  the  prophet  .... 
and  he  shall  turn  the  hearts  of  the  fathers  to  the  children." 

"Yes,  John  was  Elijah  who  was  to  come,"  he  said,  to 
himself. 

Then  he  opened  the  Book,  at  the  first  chapter  of  John's 
Gospel,  and  read : 

"And  this  is  the  witness  of  John,  when  the  Jews  sent 
unto  him  from  Jerusalem  priests  and  Levites  to  ask  him, 
whoartthou?  ....  Art  thou  Elijah?  And  he  saith, 
I  am  not.  Art  thou  the  prophet?  And  he  answered,  No!" 

For  sometime  he  sat,  thinking.  Then  he  rose  and  went 
to  the  window. 

"Cohen  is  right!"  he  said;  "and  John  lied.  It  is  the 
Christians — not  the  Jews — who  have  been  blind." 

For  sometime  he  stared  out  toward  the  moonlit  hills. 
Then  he  threw  his  Bible  into  his  grip. 

"Yes,  John  lied  1"  he  repeated.  "No  wonder  that  Jesus 
said  of  him,  'He  was  born  the  greatest  of  all  prophets ;  nev- 
ertheless he  has  become  least  of  them  all.'  And,  after  all, 
the  Jews  were  loyal  to  the  word  of  God.  Cohen  is  right. 
The  Jews  had  to  reject  Jesus  or  reject  the  word  of  God. 
Elijah  must  come  again !" 

He  undressed,  blew  out  the  light  and  went  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XLII 
CONVERGING  TRAILS 

Jeane  Kimball,  on  her  way  over  to  the  Channings  with 
some  fresh  eggs  from  the  doctor's  ranch,  met  her  father 
coming  out  of  the  drug  store. 

"Here,  Jeane,"  he  said,  "here  is  some  medicine  for  Mrs. 
Heath,  that  was  to  have  gone  yesterday.  Take  it  over  before 
you  go  to  Aunt  Martha's." 

Jeane  glanced  from  the  bottle  to  her  basket  of  eggs, 
then,  looking  up,  she  saw  Hank  Evans  in  the  door  of  his 
shoeshop. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Hank,  I  want  to  leave  my  eggs  till  I  go 
over  to  Mrs.  Heath's,"  she  said,  running  in  and  depositing 
the  basket  in  a  safe  place. 

"How  we  do  grow  'em  in  the  Valley !"  exclaimed  Hank, 
to  Luke  Waters,  now  a  decrepit  old  man,  who,  with  the  aid 
of  a  crutch,  limped  into  the  shop. 

"What?    Vegetables?" 

"Vegetables,  be  hanged,  Luke!    I  mean  purty  girls." 

The  pioneer  of  Old  Town,  now  a  confirmed  rheumatic, 
with  a  chronic  conviction  that  everything  was  "going  to  the 
devil,"  spat  a  mouthful  of  tobacco  at  the  box  of  sawdust,  but 
made  no  reply. 

The  shoemaker,  white-haired  and  white-bearded,  helped 
the  aged  rancher  to  a  chair. 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  341 

Luke  took  off  a  boot  and  gave  it  to  Hank,  who  looked 
it  over  critically,  and  sat  down  at  his  bench. 

"What  be  these  things  Heath's  boy  is  handin*  'round 
town  this  morning?"  Luke  asked,  when  he  had  got  com- 
fortably settled  and  could  feel  the  draft  of  air  coming  in 
from  the  open  back  door. 

"These  things  be  cards,  Luke,"  said  Hank,  pausing  in 
his  work  to  adjust  his  glasses  and  scrutinize  the  bit  of  paste- 
board the  other  handed  him. 

"Wall,  ye  aint  told  me  nothin'  yit  I  didn't  know!" 
snapped  out  the  old  man,  as  a  twinge  of  his  rheumatism 
made  him  swallow  a  little  tobacco  juice.  "What  do  they 
say?  What  do  they  say?" 

"It  be  a  free  lectur'  on  human  dinnymos,  w'ich,  it  goes 
on  to  say,  is  a  reason  fer  life,  death,  evil,  an'  all  kinds  o' 
sicknesses,"  said  the  shoemaker,  reading. 

"Human  dinnymo!  Never  hearn  tell  o'  that  disease 
afore.  Do  it  say  how  it  takes  holt  on  a  man,  Hank?" 

"It  ben't  no  disease,  Luke;  leastways,  it  goes  on  to  say 
that  the  aforesaid  things  is  all  account  o'  ignorance." 

"I've  hearn  tell  o'  the  human  smokestack,  w'at  eats  a 
lot  o'  fire  an'  smokes  fer  a  day'r  two ;  an'  I  hearn  tell  o'  the 
human  snake  w'at  has  a  clus  fit  pair  o'  striped  pants,  an'  a 
shirt,  and  twists  hisself  up  into  a  knot  or  somethin';  but  I 
never  hearn  tell  o'  the  human  dinnymo,  afore,"  declared 
Luke. 

"Mebbe  he  eats  dinnymite,  or  some  kind  of  exploshun- 
stuff,"  volunteered  the  shoemaker.  "Here  comes  the  old 
parson;  mebbe  he  can  tell  us.  Wat's  the  meanin'  o'  this 
mess,  parson?"  Hank  gave  the  aged  minister  the  card  and 
proceeded  to  extricate  a  pair  of  gaiters  from  the  shoe  pile. 


342  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

The  Reverend  Obed  Swallow  put  on  his  reading  glasses 
and  read  aloud: 

FREE  LECTURE 

on 

The  Human  Dynamo. 

Life,  Death,  Good  and  Evil,  and 

Sickness  and  Health, 

Properly  Understood 

Disease,  Deformities,  and  Death, 

are  all  the  result  of  ignorance. 
All  fully  explained  at  The  Second  Church, 

Saturday  Evening,  June  2nd. 
THOMAS  PAYNE,  E.  E.,  Demonstrator. 

"It's  a  lecture  on  electricity,"  the  parson  explained. 
"This  man  was  brought  here  by  that  erratic  new  preacher 
at  The  Second  Church.  He  is  probably  a  vendor  of  some 
panacea,  and  uses  this  means  to  get  a  hall  full  of  people, 
and  then  offers  them  some  kind  of  stomach  bitters  or  kidney 
cure."  He  paid  for  the  repair  work  and  went  out. 

"So  it's  'lectricity,"  said  the  shoemaker,  sitting  down 
at  his  bench  again,  and  beginning  to  work  on  Luke's  boot. 
"Wall,  it  beats  all  I  hearn  tell  w'at  'lectricity  can  do.  They 
say  it  comes  out  o'  now'ere.  They  jest  run  a  wire  in  the 
air,  and  hitch  a  wheel  to  t'other  end  an'  hauls  it  in  like  nil 
git  out." 

"It's  one  o'  them  superstitional  things  I  calc'late  it's 
best  to  leave  alone,"  said  Luke.  "These  smart  Alecs  come 
here  an'  run  a  lot  o'  wires  'long  on  poles.  Then  the  feller 
at  the  deepo  makes  a  clickclack  on  a  thumbscrew  or  'nother, 
an'  sez  in  less  nor  a  minnit  he  knows  if  a  train's  left  St. 
Paul  on  time.  They're  in  cohoots  with  the  devil,  the  hull 
dinged  lot,  an'  I  don't  want  nothin'  to  do  with  'em !" 

"Thar  aint  nothin'  to  be  afeard  of,  is  thar,  Luke?    The 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  343 

wires  be  isolated,  I've  hearn  tell,  w'ich  means  they  can't 
hurt  ye." 

"Wall,  they  air  talkin'  o'  puttin'  up  a  isolated  hospital 
here.  Mebbe  it's  fer  them  people  w'at  gits  some  kind  o'  a 
'lectric  disease,"  suggested  the  old  rancher. 

"No,  Luke;  it  be  a  'noculated  institushun,  fer  some  o' 
them  fellers'  families  w'at  comes  here  from  the  states,  with 
them  'noculated  diseases.  There  have  been  already  five 
deaths  in  secreshun  from  w'at  the  doctors  say  war  stoppages 
o'  the  heart.  Must  be  terribly  onhealthy  in  the  states,  Luke." 

"Wall,  it  war  toler'bly  healthy  here,  Hank,  afore  the 
railroad  come.  Ye  can't  say  it  warn't,  Hank,  not  if  ye  war 
whoopin'  'er  up  fer  it  to  come.  An'  now  thar  be  fifteen  doc- 
tors here  if  thar  be  one,  an'  not  countin'  Doc,  the  Pillmaker, 
neither,"  said  Luke.  "That  tuberlocus  disease  air  worse'n 
any  disease  I  ever  heerd  on  afore." 

"  'Taint  nowise  as  deadly  as  'nother  disease  most  on 
'em  dies  of,"  said  Hank,  as  he  paused  in  his  pegging  to  put 
another  liberal  supply  of  foot-powder  in  the  boot. 

"Wat's  that?"  Luke  asked,  his  jaw  movement  coming 
to  a  dead  stop. 

"Medical  treatment,"  said  Hank,  with  a  grin. 

"Let  me  see  that  card  agin,"  said  Luke,  after  he  had 
spat  a  few  more  times  in  the  sawdust,  and  had  changed  his 
position. 

"Says  Thomas  Payne,  E.  E.'"  said  Hank,  who  had 
again  picked  up  the  card,  and  read  it  through.  "Wonder 
what  'E.  E.'  stands  fer."  He  tossed  it  to  the  rancher. 

"Dunno's  I  know,"  said  Luke.  "Them  engineer  fel- 
lers had  a  lot  o'  letters  on  the  tail  o'  their  names." 

"They  war  'C.  E.'  w'ich  is  fer  'Civil  Engineer,'  "  said 
Hank.  "If  this  war  'L.  E.',  now,  I'd  think  it  war  meant 
fer  'Lectrical  Engineer.'  " 


344  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Shore  it  aint  'L.  E.'  ?"  Luke  asked,  studying  the  bit  of 
pasteboard,  laboriously. 

"Did  ye  ever  hear  tell  how  Buck  got  a  new  pair  o'  boots 
fust  year  the  tellygraph  war  put  through?" 

Luke  shook  his  head. 

"Buck  war  stayin'  with  old  Bumpy,  ye  reckerlect,  Luke. 
An'  ye  also  reckerlect  the  old  man  war  durned  clus  fisted. 
Buck  had  been  doin'  the  chores  'round  the  place  till  spring, 
'cause  he  didn't  have  nothin'  else  to  do.  Wall,  he  got  to 
needin'  a  pair  o'  boots  mighty  bad,  an'  he  war  bound  to 
make  old  Bumpy  pay  fer  'em.  One  day  the  old  man  gits  a 
letter  from  his  boy  who  war  in  school  somew'ere  in  the  States, 
an'  he  gives  it  to  Buck  to  read  fer  'im. 

"Thar  war  one  thing  the  kid  wanted  worse  nor  all,  Buck 
ha*  told  him,  an'  it  war  a  pair  o'  boots.  Old  Bumpy  couldn't 
read,  so  Buck  he  supplied  the  distress  fer  the  boots.  Any- 
ways, he  sez  to  Bumpy  if  he  war  him  he'd  git  the  boots  and 
ship  'em  to  the  kid.  'But  it'll  cost  a  powerful  lot,'  says 
Bumpy.  'Send  'em  by  tellgraph,'  sez  Buck.  'It'll  cost  a 
heap  more,  won't  it?'  sez  Bumpy,  'I'll  'tend  to  that,'  sez 
Buck,  'an'  it  won't  cost  ye  a  cent,'  he  sez.  'How  can  ye  do 
it?'  sez  Bumpy.  'Jest  wait  till  it's  dark,'  sez  Buck,  an'  ye 
can  climb  up  an'  hang  'em  on  the  wire  yerself ,  an'  zip !'  sez 
Buck,  'they'll  go  fer  nothin'. 

"Wall,  this  war  pleasant  to  Bumpy,  so  he  gits  the  boots 
arter  Buck  had  tolt  him  w'at  size  the  kid  'ud  need,  an'  that 
night  w'en  it  war  dark,  Buck  takes  a  pair  o'  climbers  one  o' 
the  engineer  fellers  left  thar  sometime  afore,  likewise  a  bill 
fer  grub,  an'  he  clomb  the  pole  like  a  cat,  an'  hangs  the  boots 
on  the  wire  right  afore  Bumpy's  eyes.  They  war  all  nice 
wrapped  up  in  a  box,  an'  Buck  ha'  made  a  hook  fer  hangin'. 

"Wall,  next  mornin',  w'en  old  Bumpy  gits  up,  first 
thing  he  sees  is  a  pair  o'  played-out  old  boots  a  hangin' 
w'ere  Buck  ha'  put  the  box,  night  afore.  'Drat  the  kid !'  sez 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  345 

Bumpy,  w'en  he  sees  'em.  'He  might  a  had  some  regard 
fer  my  pride/  he  sez,  'an'  sent  his  old  boots  back  in  the  box 
I  sent  the  new  ones  in,'  sez  he.  Then  he  give  Latimer's  boy 
two  bits  to  climb  up  an'  git  the  old  stogies.  Buck  lit  out  same 
day,  an'  Bumpy  never  knew  till  he  died  that  it  war  Buck's 
old  boots  w'at  come  back  by  tellygraph." 

"This  dinnymo  feller  is  a  demonstratur,  w'atever  the 
Sam  Hill  that  means,"  said  Luke,  without  passing  any  re- 
mark on  Hank's  story.  "It  don't  say  anythink  about  liver 
medicine,  or  rheumatic  oil,  leastwise  not  on  this  here  card. 
Mebbe  he's  got  suthin'  w'at  '11  help  this  dinged  rheumatism 
o'  mine.  I'll  come  up  if  I  don't  feel  too  sot  up.  It  don't 
cost  nothin',  do  it,  Hank?" 

"  'Free  lectur,'  it  sez,  w'ich  I  take,  means  all  'at  goes 
with  it, — rheumatiz  remedies  an'  all." 

"Mebbe  thar's  some  catch  in  that  word,  'demonstra- 
tur.' "  said  Luke,  meditatingly.  "Have  ye  got  that  boot 
'bout  done?" 

Hank  took  a  few  more  stitches,  cut  the  thread,  and  spat 
on  the  leather. 

"It'll  last,  now,  fer  quite  a  spell,  Luke,"  he  said,  rub- 
bing his  hand  back  and  forth  over  the  patch  to  make  it 
smooth.  Then  he  handed  it  over  to  the  old  rancher. 

"Them  heels  be  purty  bad,  Luke,"  he  suggested.  "Bet- 
ter let  me  do  the  hull  job,  now's  ye're  here." 

"Don't  know's  I'll  git  'nother  chance  right  soon;  so  ye 
might's  as  well  go  ahead,"  said  Luke,  pulling  off  his  other 
boot.  .  »,'ill( 

"There's  a  Jew  feller  in  town,"  said  Hank,  after  he  had 
picked  out  some  bits  of  leather  of  proper  size.  "He  war  in 
here  t'other  day,  fer  me  to  fix  a  strap.  He's  tryin'  to  find 
out  suthin'  about  the  Gorins." 

"Mebbe  he  will,  and  mebbe  he  won't,"  said  Luke,  bor- 
rowing Hank's  knife  to  cut  off  a  fresh  piece  of  tobacco. 


346  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"No  one  else  ever  found  out  much  'bout  'em.  Takes  a  Jew 
to  find  out  things — if  it's  got  any  think  to  do  with  money." 

"Ye  said  a  bucketful  that  time,  Luke.  The  Jews  be 
purty  likely  to  own  this  airth,  some  day,  an'  all's  in  it.  The 
scriptur'  seems  sot  on  it,  too,  fur's  I  see." 

"I  haint  got  nothink  agin  a  Jew,  much  as  these  church 
critturs  talk  agin  'em,"  said  Luke.  "Ye  don't  find  'em  much 
in  jails  er  looney  houses,  old  Crocker  ha'  told  me,  onct. 
Beats  me,  Hank,  why  yure  religious  exhorters  don't  like 
'em.  Don't  yure  Good  Book  say  as  how  yure  Christ  war  a 
Jew?" 

"He  aint  my  Christ  any  mor'n  he's  yourn,  Luke.  He 
ha'  come  fer  all  men — that  is  to  say,  all  that  be  o'  the  seed 
o'  Abraham." 

Luke's  toothless  jaws  worked  rapidly  to  pulp  the  un- 
known ingredients  of  his  cud,  his  eyes  squinting  at  Hank, 
who  was  prying  off  the  worn  heels  with  a  peculiar  tool. 

"Them  critturs  w'at  run  the  Cath'lic  church — them 
poops  and  card'nals,  w'at  that  priest  feller  war  spoutin' 
'bout,  here,  a  spell  back — they  be'nt  Jews,  be  they,  Hank?" 

"They  be  Italyuns,  Luke.  Parson  Raines  ha'  told  me, 
once,  the  Italyuns  come  from  the  'Syrians,  w'at  the  Bible 
ha'  warned  us  w'ud  git  holt  o'  Christianity,  some  day  or 
'nother.  Beats  me,  Luke,  how  a  'Syrian  poop  can  make  a 
hull  world  believe  he  comes  from  the  seed  o'  Israel,  an'  ha' 
got  a  right  to  say  how  the  Jew  church  w'at  Paul  ha'  'stab- 
lished,  sh'ud  be  run.  The  church  o'  Christianity  war  cal- 
c'lated  to  be  a  restrashun  o'  the  hull  twelve  tribes,  w'at  the 
Lord  ha'  give  to  set  the  rest  o'  humanity  right  side  up.  How 
can  they  expect  to  make  a  fam'ly  reunion  w'en  they  invite 
in  all  sorts  o'  critturs  w'at  haint  come  from  the  seed  o' 
Israel,  a-tall?  The  Lord  ha'  give  a  prophecy,  onct,  that  the 
ten  tribes  w'at  ha'  got  away  from  them  'Syrians  arter  they 
made  'em  slaves,  'ud  come  together  agin." 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  347 

"Who  be  they,  Hank?" 

"Wall,  I  reckon  as  how  ye  air  one  on  'em,  Luke,  bein' 
as  how  yure  grandfather  war  Irish  extracshun.  The  Irish 
'pear  to  be  a  long  time  findin'  out  they  haint  got  no  excuse 
fer  bein'  in  a  cath'lic  church.  The  parson  ha'  tolt  me,  onct, 
how  the  word,  'cath'lic,'  means  fellers  from  all  kinds  o'  races, 
w'en  it  sez  plain  enough  in  the  Bible  that  the  kingdom  o' 
heaven  air  to  be  jest  them  w'at  ha'  come  from  the  seed  o' 
Israel.  The  parson  ha'  tolt  me,  onct,  how  the  Irish  air  from 
the  seed  o'  Israel,  an'  how  they  kept  the  stun  o'  Jacob,  w'at 
Jacob  ha'  gone  to  sleep  on,  w'en  he  see  the  angels  comin'  an' 
goin'  inter  heaven,  an'  how  the  stun  ha'  been  tuk  to  Ireland 
more  than  six  hundred  years  afore  Christ,  by  Jeremiah,  the 
prophet  w'at  writ  the  Lamenshuns  o'  the  Bible.  'Cordin'  to 
the  parson,  the  Irish  war  a  great  people  fer  a  thousan'  years, 
nigh  'bout,  w'ile  they  war  proud  o'  bein'  descendants  o' 
Israel,  afore  they  got  to  follerin'  a  'Syrian  poop,  w'at  air 
Italyun  an'  haint  o'  the  seed  o'  Israel  a-tall.  Now  the  Irish 
air  'bout  the  only  ones  left  o'  the  lost  tribes  w'at  haint  emit 
bein'  in  a  church  w'at  is  cath'lic.  Beats  me  how  they  stick 
to  follerin'  Italyun  poops  w'at  haint  o'  the  seed  o'  Israel,  an' 
haint  to  be  'mong  the  hundred  and  forty-four  thousan'  serv- 
ants o'  the  Lord  tolt  'bout  in  the  Book  o'  Revelashuns." 

"W'at  ye  mean  by  'the  seed  o'  Israel,'  Hank?" 

"The  parson  ha'  tolt  me,  onct,  the  'lost  ten  tribes'  air 
them  ten  nashuns,  like  England,  Scotland,  Wales,  Ireland, 
Danmark,  Swedan,  Norway  an'  Germany,  an'  one  or  two 
I  forgit.  He  sez  they  air  'bout  all  the  prot'stant  nashuns  o' 
the  airth,  an'  w'at  b'lieve  in  the  same  God  the  Jews  ha' 
b'lieved  in.  He  'lows  no  Israel  feller  can  jine  a  church 
w'at's  cath'lic,  fer  that  means  all  sorts  o'  critturs,  w'ile  the 
Bible  sez — an'  I  ha'  read  it,  myself — that  jest  them  that  air 
the  descendants  o'  Jacob  air  to  be  the  church  o'  the  Lord. 


348  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

He  sez  as  how  Jesus  ha'  come  to  bring  the  hull  twelve  tribes 
together,  agin,  in  a  new  kingdom  w'at  '11  be  called,  'Zion,' 
an'  w'ich  air  to  be  the  kingdom  o'  heaven  on  airth.  He 
know'd  he  c'udn't  make  a  fam'ly  reunion  o'  the  twelve 
tribes  if  all  sorts  o'  critturs  come  in  'fore  they  git  the  new 
nashun  'stablished.  Ye  see,  Luke,  thar  ha'  been  a  lot  o' 
diff'rent  kinds  o'  races  o'  peoples  started  new  on  this  airth, 
arter  the  others  ha'  had  their  times,  in  the  last  million  years 
or  more,  like  the  Jew  race  ha'  come  from  Adam,  'bout  five 
or  six  thousan'  years  ago.  An'  ev'ry  new  race  ha'  had  their 
own  God  an'  their  own  Saviour,  an'  ha'  got  to  work  out, 
their  own  way,  w'at  their  Lord  ha'  wanted  'em  to  do,  an' 
sech,  like  w'at  Adam  ha'  been  tolt  w'en  he  war  with  the  Lord, 
face  to  face,  afore  he  ha'  got  blood  in  his  body,  an'  w'at 
he  ha'  tolt  Knock  an'  Methusely,  an'  Noah,  w'ose  sons  ha' 
tolt  it  to  Abraham  an'  Jacob,  an'  how  they  air  to  make  a 
kingdom  on  airth  like  the  kingdoms  o'  heaven  be.  An'  o' 
course,  seein'  as  how  them  other  races  ha'  had  their  chanct, 
the  Lord  o'  the  Jews,  an'  t'other  tribes  o'  Israel,  air  to  use 
jest  them  to  work  out  His  way  o'  doin'  things  afore  His 
Judgment  Day  comes." 

"He  aint  done  it  yit,  Hank.  An'  that  war  a  couple 
thousan'  years  ago  or  therebouts,"  said  Luke,  missing  the 
sawdust  box  by  about  three  inches. 

"Haint  ye  got  no  respect  f er  my  floor !"  Hank  scowled, 
pushing  the  box  nearer  the  other,  with  the  aid  of  an  um- 
brella handle. 

"Can't  spit  straight,  Hank,  w'en  ye  air  quotin'  scrip- 
tur'.  I  had  rather  go  to  hell  straight  account  o'  not  knowin' 
nothin'  'bout  it,  rather'n  be  racin'  'roun'  like  a  herd  o'  crazy 
Mavericks,  tryin'  to  find  the  straight  road  to  glory — jes'  to 
play  a  harp  w'en  I  git  thar." 

Hank  chuckled. 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  349 

"I  reckon  ye'd  be  more  like  a  bull  in  a  chiny  shop,  if 
ye  got  to  heaven,  Luke;  fer  ye  c'udn't  chew  tobacker  thar; 
leastwise,  I  aint  thinkin'  ye  c'ud." 

"Wat's  that  yure  Good  Book  sez  'bout  eatin'  pig,  Hank? 
All  yure  church  critturs  'pear  to  fergit  w'at  the  Lord  ha' 
said,  w'en  they  git  to  eatin'.  The  new  parson  sez — so  Jenks 
ha'  told  me — that  the  Lord  ha'  said  all  them  as  eats  o'  pig- 
meat  '11  go  to  hell,  straight,  'long  with  the  wicked.  W'at 
you  sayin'  'bout  that,  Hank?" 

"Wall,"  said  Hank,  driving  his  pegs  vigorously,  "1 
reckon  as  how  the  fellers  w'at  writ  the  hell  doctrin'  o'  the 
churches,  ha'  got  a  taste  o'  hog  meat  afore  they  writ;  an' 
they  ha'  made  out  as  how  the  Lord  war  wrong,  and  how 
some  other  feller  war  right,  w'at  ha'  said,  'the  Lord  ha' 
made  all  meats  good  to  eat,'  or  suthin'  like  that.  I  haint  no 
vegetable  cuss,  Luke,  but  I  'bout  as  soon  eat  the  gut  of  a 
rattler,  as  a  shank  o'  pig.  W'en  I  git  to  thinkin'  I  know 
more  than  the  Lord,  Luke,  I'll  quit  peggin'  boots,  and  start 
raisin'  wings." 

"Be  thar  anythink  in  yure  Good  Book  agin  tobacker, 
Hank?" 

Hank  turned  his  face  toward  the  window  a  moment, 
and  Luke  correctly  sensed  he  was  chuckling  to  himself. 

"Luke,"  said  he,  presently,  "from  all  accounts  the  Lord 
air  perfectly  willin'  fer  any  feller  w'at's  usin'  tobacker,  to 
keep  to  usin'  it — w'ilst  he's  here  on  airth,  leastways.  I  haint 
writ  it,  Luke,  an'  ye  can't  blame  me  fer  w'at  the  new  parson 
o'  the  Second  Church  sez  to  Red.  Red  ha'  arsked  the  par- 
son, did  the  Bible  say  as  a  feller  sh'ud  n't  eat  tobacker." 

Hank  paused,  to  smoothe  his  grin  to  a  more  serious  ex- 
pression. 

"Wall,  w'at  the  parson  tell  him?"  Luke  asked,  testily. 

"He  tolt  Red,  the  Lord  'pears  to  ha'  know'd  someday 


350  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

fellers  'ud  use  tobacker  an'  snuff  an'  sech;  fer  it  be  writ  in 
the  Book  o'  Revelashuns — an'  I  haint  writ  it,  Luke,  an'  haint 
nowise  to  blame  fer  w'at  it  sez,  Luke ;  but,  sez  the  new  par- 
son to  Red:  'Red/  he  sez,  'it  sez  thar:  If  any  man  be  holy, 
let  him  be  holy  still ;  an'  if  he  be  filthy,  let  him  be  filthy  still.' 
The  parson  ha'  tolt  Red  that,  Luke;  an'  ye  ha'  arsked  me 
did  the  Bible  say  anythink,  an'  I  jest  tell  ye  w'at  the  parson 
ha'  told  Red." 

Luke's  jaws  worked  rapidly  for  a  moment,  his  eyes 
squinting  into  the  shoemaker's  face. 

"Wall,  Hank,  from  all  ye  say  an'  partic'lar  the  way  ye 
say  it,  I  ha'  got  a  noshun  ye  don't  use  tobacker,  yureself ,"  he 
snapped.  "Haint  ye  got  them  boots  done  yit?" 

"Not  yit,  Luke ;  ye  know  I  haint,  bein'  as  I  ha'  jest  got 
the  heels  off." 

"Wat's  this  Christian  Seeance  they  be  talkin'  'bout, 
Hank, — w'at  some  woman  ha'  writ  in  a  book?" 

"Fer  as  I  see — an'  I  haint  seen  none  o'  her  books,  yit — 
it  be  suthin'  agin  doctors  an'  medicin'.  Jedge  Lattimer 
war  tellin'  the  old  parson,  t'other  day,  it  be  a  new  religion, 
w'at  be  goin'  to  revolushunize  Christianity." 

"W'at  'd  the  parson  say?" 

"He  said  Christianity  an'  the  Meth'dist  church  war  good 
enough  fer  Peter,  an'  Paul,  an'  John,  an'  he  'lowed  they'd  be 
still  goin'  w'en  this  woman  war  forgot — so  the  Jedge  ha' 
told  me." 

"The  Widder  Heath  ha'  let  Sary  take  one  o'  the  books 
to  read.  She  haint  been  able  to  make  head  or  tail  o'  w'at 
be  writ  in  it.  She  sez  the  Heaths  an'  the  Widder  Swallow 
ha'  all  tried  to  git  suthin'  out  o'  it,  but  ha'  had  to  stop, 
afearin'  they'd  go  looney.  The  Heath  boy  ha'  been  wantin' 
to  go  to  a  horspital  fer  one  o'  them  deadly  operashuns  ye 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  351 

talk  about,  Hank;  but  his  ma's  'fraid  he  wont  come  out 
live  agin." 

"Wall,  Luke,  from  all  accounts  it's  'bout  nip  and  tuck. 
If  ye  go  inter  Christian  Seeance  to  git  well,  ye'll  lose  yure 
reason,  an'  if  ye  go  inter  medical  seeance,  ye'll  lose  yure  life. 
Seeance  is  gittin'  more  wonderful  ev'ry  day,  Luke,  'spe- 
cially w'en  a  woman  air  pardoocin'  it." 

"Aint  thar  suthin'  in  yure  Good  Book,  Hank,  agin 
women  runnin'  the  church  doin's?  That  Dinkelstein  Jew 
cuss  ha'  told  us  that  day — you  remember,  Hank? — right 
here,  that  the  Jews'  Bible  is  agin  a  woman  spoutin'  religion. 
Ben't  yure  Good  Book  same  as  the  Jews,  Hank?" 

"Yas,  I  reckon  it's  'bout  six  o'  one  and  half  dozen  o' 
t'other  w'en  it  air  all  read  the  Lord's  way.  Paul  ha'  made 
a  great  noise  agin  women  mixin'  in  church  doin's.  I  reckon 
that  'thorn  in  his  hide,'  w'at  he  ha'  told  'bout,  war  put  thar 
by  some  woman." 

"War  he  one  o'  them  'Syrian  poops,  Hank?" 

"Paul  war  a  Jew,  Luke;  an'  he  ha'  raised  hell  with 
Matthew  and  Mark  an'  the  rest  o'  them  'postle  fellers,  till 
one  night  suthin'  ha'  gi'n  him  a  nightmare;  an'  arter  that 
he  ha'  writ  more  stuff  w'at  nobody  can  understand,  than 
all  the  other  fellers  w'at  ha'  writ.  He  ha'  started  out  to 
build  the  church  o'  Christ;  but  arter  people  got  to  readin' 
w'at  he  writ,  they  got  to  startin'  new  churches,  jest  to  find 
out  w'at  he  didn't  mean  by  w'at  he  didn't  'tend  to  say." 

"He  war  some  parleyclucker,  warn't  he,  Hank?" 

"He  war,  Luke,  s'  help  me !" 

Luke's  jaws  wrestled  his  cud  to  the  other  cheek,  as  he 
made  a  few  vainly  vicious  jabs  at  the  flies,  mobilizing  on 
his  knees. 

"Hank,  w'at  war  them  eunicks  that  priest  feller  war 


352  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

sayin'  ha'  had  to  be  sech,  'count  o'  servin'  the  Lord?  He 
warn't  one,  war  he,  Hank?" 

"Wall,  Luke,  from  all  accounts,  a  eunick  be  jest  the 
thing  w'at  none  o'  them  priest  fellers  haint.  It  beats  me, 
Luke,  how  a  feller  can  b'lieve  the  poop's  church  air  the 
church  o'  Christ  w'en  the  Jews'  Bible  ha'  writ  'Ye  shall  git 
married  an'  multiply.'  I  ha'  heerd  say  the  Cath'lic  church 
war  founded  by  Peter.  He  warn't  no  eunick,  Luke;  an' 
he  ha'  had  a  wife,  fer  I  ha'  read  he  rebuked  his  mother-in- 
law — or  mebbe  it  war  the  devil  in  her,  w'at  he  rebuked." 

"More'n  likely,"  said  Luke.  "Some  on  'em  air  chuck 
full  o'  devils,  so  I  ha'  hearn  tell." 

"Ye  got  a  great  imaginashun  'bout  w'at  ye  ha'  heerd 
tell,  Luke." 

"W'at  ye  think  'ud  happen,  Hank,  if  all  them  priest  fel- 
lers w'at  haint  'lowed  to  marry,  an'  sech,  war  tolt  they  got 
to  be  eunicks?" 

"Guess  thar'd  be  a  revolushun  in  the  church  quicker'n 
ye  c'ud  say,  'scat!'  Luke." 

"Hank  the  Jedge  tolt  me,  onct,  all  them  big  Bible  fel- 
lers ha'  had  a  lot  o'  wives  an'  sech.  W'at  ye  got  to  say  'bout 
that,  Hank?" 

"Wall,  Luke,  I  reckon  how,  'bout  that  time,  the  wimmen 
ha'  come  to  thinkin'  they  war  the  hull  thing,  an'  they  c'ud 
make  their  husbands  do  anythink  they  tuk  a  noshun  to  want, 
or  they'd  lock  'em  out  o'  the  house  an'  sech  like.  So  the 
Lord,  w'at  ha  said  the  wimmin  air  not  to  be  boss,  jest  give  i 
feller  a  right  to  take  more'n  one  wife,  an'  o'  course  the  feller 
'ud  do  the  most  fer  the  one  w'at  war  best  to  him.  Then,  o' 
course'  thar'd  be  competishun  fer  gittin'  the  feller  to  likin' 
on  em  both,  an'  they'd  more'n  likely  be  better  wives.  The 
.Lord  ha'  know'd  a  feller  haint  good  fer  much  fer  doin' 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  353 

things,  if  he's  got  a  pesterin'  wife  w'at  thinks  she  be  a  bigger 
feller  'n  he  be." 

"D'ye  think  time  '11  come  agin,  Hank,  w'en  a  feller  '11 
have  a  right  to  more'n  one  wife?" 

Hank  held  his  hammer  against  the  boot  sole  for  a  mo- 
ment as  he  looked,  thoughtfully,  into  Luke's  wrinkled  face. 

"Luke,  I  haint  here  to  say  anythink  agin  the  Lord's  way 
o'  doin'  things,  an'  I  can't  help  but  think  He  never  did  b'lieve 
in  pollyogomy,  or  w'atever  they  call  it.  But  one  thing  ye  can 
b'lieve,  Luke,  an'  that  be,  the  Lord  never  ha*  intended  a 
woman  to  be  equal  to  man  in  the  things  a  man  ha'  got  to  do 
to  pervide  fer  her  w'ile  she  ha'  been  give  to  take  care  o'  the 
kids  an'  sech.  'Pears  to  me  most  divorces  air  caused  by 
wimmin  gittin'  to  thinkin'  they  can  be  boss  o'  the  man,  w'ich, 
o'  course,  starts  a  feller  lookin'  'round  fer  some  woman  he 
can  jest  love,  an'  do  things  fer,  w'at  she'll  appreciate. 
'Taint  natural  fer  a  man  to  care  much  fer  a  wife  w'at  he  can't 
feel  's  dependin'  on  him,  so  he'll  jest  let  natur'  lead  him. 
Then  t'other  wife'll  think  she's  got  a  right  to  git  a  divorce, 
an'  make  the  feller  support  her  on  allermoney." 

"Wat's  all  this  parleycluck  got  to  do  with  w'at  I  ha' 
arsked  ye,  Hank?  I  arsked  ye,  if  time  '11  come  agin,  w'en 
a  feller  '11  be  give  a  right  to  a  lot  o'  wives." 

"Like's  not,"  said  Hank,  starting  again,  to  hammer  the 
nails  into  the  boot  heel.  "If  time  comes  w'en  divorces  air 
multiplyin'  more'n  people,  an'  wimmen  git  more  and  more  sot 
agin  havin'  kids,  there  ben't  no  other  remedy,  fer's  I  see. 
Pollyogomy  '11  git  a  woman  to  stay  home  an'  make  love  to  her 
man,  'stead  o'  prancin'  'round  fer  other  feller's  to  see  how 
frisky  she  can  be — away  from  home.  No  feller  haint  goin' 
to  want  more'n  one  wife  to  pervide  fer,  'less  he  haint  got 
a  helpmeet,  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  said  woman  air  to  be.  W'en 
a  woman  aint  no  longer  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  intended  she 


354  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

sh'ud  be,  mebbe  the  gover'ment  will  make  a  law  w'at  '11  give 
a  man  'nother  chance  'thout  his  havin'  to  pay  allermoney  f  er 
her  to  go  galvantin'  'round  the  kentry  with  fellers  w'at  don't 
want  wives.  Mebbe  the  gover'ment  will  pervide  a  place  fer 
sech  wimmin  w'ere  thar  ben't  no  men  folks  to  keep  'em  from 
bossing  the  roost.  They  c'ud  jest  pester  each  other — s'long's 
they'd  last." 

"Wall,  Hank,  w'en  ye  git  to  runnin'  fer  president  o' 
'Mericky  like  ye  ha'  said  onct,  ye  better  not  say  much  'bout 
yure  ideas  on  pollywogamy,  an*  sech,  or  the  wimmin  '11  skin 
ye  alive.  Civil'zashun  's  mostly  w'at  the  wimmin  makes  it, 
an'  she  haint  goin'  to  be  satisfied  till  she  can  git  a  law  passed 
w'at  sez  the  men  ha'  got  to  have  the  kids." 

Hank  sharpened  his  knife  for  a  moment  on  the  whet- 
stone. 

"Like's  not,"  he  said,  presently. 

"Lanky  ha'  tolt  me,  Hank,  he  war  member  o'  some 
church  or  'nother,  onct.  Guess  that  war  quite  a  spell  back." 

"Wall,  Luke,  he  be  a  member  yit,  'cordin'  to  w'at  he 
ha'  tolt  me.  He  said  as  how  he  war  gone  to  see  a  doctor 
feller  in  Frisco,  onct,  w'at  war  a  great  church  feller,  'count  o' 
havin'  to  give  pills  an'  sech  to  the  sisters  an'  deacons.  It 
war  on  Sunday,  an'  the  feller  ha'  tuk  Lanky  to  church,  so 
he  ha'  tolt  me.  Arter  they  ha'  sung  suthin'  'bout  bein'  full 
o'  holes,  sez  Lanky,  all  on  'em  begun  talkin'  to  onct,  he  sez, 
an'  sayin' :  'O  Lord,  I  ha'  done  ev'rythink  w'at  I  orter  not 
done,  an'  I  ha'  done  nothink  w'at  I  orter  done,  an'  thar  haint 
no  help  fer  me.'  'I  see,  right  then,'  sez  Lanky,  'I  ha'  been  a 
member  o'  the  'Piscapull  church  'bout  all  my  life  an'  never 
know'd  it  till  then.'  I  guess,  Luke,  he  air  still  a  member, 
fur's  that  be." 

"Hank,  ye  aint  told  me  why  yure  church  don't  like  the 
Jews.  Wat's  the  Jews  ever  done  agin  the  churches?" 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  355 

"Wall,  Luke,  my  noshun  be  like  this:  Wen  them 
Syrian  poops  got  holt  the  church  o'  Christ,  w'at  Paul  built, 
I  reckon  fust  thing  they  ha'  thought  'bout  war  the  'lost 
tribes  o'  Israel,'  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  sed,  war  to  come  back, 
some  day  or  'nother,  an'  jine  the  Jews.  The  Jews  be  only 
two  of  the  'riginal  twelve  tribes, — the  two  w'ich  the  Bible 
sez  was  allus  to  stick  to  them  old  thingamajigs  w'at  that 
feller,  Moses,  ha'  made  out  the  Lord  tolt  him  to  make  'em 
do,  like  circumstishun,  an'  throwin'  their  sins  in  the  river, 
w'en  a  sartin  day  conies — an'  all  talkin'  to  onct,  w'en  they 
git  to  tellin'  the  Lord  w'at  a  great  Feller  He  is;  like  that 
renegade  cuss,  Dinkelstein,  w'at  ha'  tolt  us  right  here  in 
my  shop,  an'  sez  his  father  war  a  Jew  robbay  in  a  sinkel- 
gog  in  Noo  Yark." 

"Wat's  all  this  parleycluck  got  to  do  wit'  w'at  I  ha' 
arsked,  why  yure  church  critters  allus  look  at  a  Jew  like 
he  war  a  greaser  or  a  drunk  siwash.  W'at  the  Jews  ever 
done  to  'em,  Hank?" 

"Ye  got  'bout  as  much  patience,  Luke,  as  a  tub  o' 
grease,  bilin'  fer  soap.  Ye're  splutterin'  fer  ev'rythink  to 
come  to  the  top  to  onct.  Ye  got  to  git  to  the  bottom  o'  yure 
shaker  to  git  the  nuggets." 

"'Bout  all  ye  got  to  dig  up  from  the  bottom  o'  yure 
shaker,  Hank,  is  suthin'  w'at  that  feller,  Moses,  ha'  sed — 
suthin'  'bout  the  Lord.  Wat's  the  reason  a  Jew  hain't  got 
jest  as  much  right  to  play  a  harp  as  yure  pig-eatin'  church 
members  ?  That's  all  I  arsk  ye,  Hank." 

"I  reckon  they  have,  Luke.  I  begun  to  tell  ye  that 
w'en  them  'Syrian  poops  and  card'nals  got  their  hands  on  the 
church  w'at  Paul  built,  fust  thing  they  see,  prob'ly  war  that 
the  Lord  ha'  made  a  plan  fer  them  ten  tribes,  w'at  war  lost, 
to  jine  the  Jews  and  build  up  a  nashun  w'at'd  fill  the  hull 
airth.  They  see  w'en  that  thing  'ud  come  the  jig  'ud  be  up 


356  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

fer  them.  So  they  made  out  as  how  it  war  the  Jews  w'at  ha' 
crucified  Christ;  an'  they  ha'  made  most  ev'ryone  b'lieve 
it,  too.  They  ha'  kept  the  Jews  mad  agin  the  Christians,  an' 
ha*  kept  the  Christians  b'lievin'  they  sh'ud  hate  the  Jews." 

"I  allus  heerd  it  war  the  Jews  w'at  did  it,  Hank?  But 
the  old  parson  ha'  said — so  the  Jedge  ha'  tolt  me — that 
Christ  war  sent  here  fer  that  very  puppose,  to  be  crucified. 
Tears  to  me,  Hank,  they  sh'ud  been  give  a  metal,  or 
suthin',  for  doin'  w'at  yure  Lord  ha'  wanted  done.  Don't 
yure  Bible  say  it  war  the  Jews  w'at  did  the  dirty  work  o' 
the  Lord?" 

"Wall,  I  ha'  read,  an'  read,  all  it  sez  in  my  Bible,  an'  I 
never  c'ud  find  thar  war  one  Jew  at  that  lynchin'.  Mebbe 
them  poops  ha'  writ  a  Bible  w'at  tells  it  that  way.  'Tain't 
in  my  Bible.  It  sez  them  Italyun  fellers  w'at  ha'  put  Herod 
to  boss  the  Jews,  'cause  he  war  one  o'  them  Phillistin' 
cusses  w'ose  ancester  war  hit  by  a  stun  w'at  David  ha' 
thrun — er  mebbe  it  war  wit'  a  jaw  bone  o'  the  ass.  Any- 
ways, they  ha'  tolt  Herod,  w'en  they  heerd  Christ  war  born, 
to  kill  the  childurn,  same  age,  so  as  to  git  him  afore  he 
grew  up  an'  got  the  Jews  to  believe  he  war  the  Messiah. 
But  the  Lord  ha'—" 

"Thar  ye  go,  parleycluckin'  agin  'bout  the  Lord.  I 
hain't  arskin*  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  done.  Ye  don't  answer  my 
question,  Hank." 

"Wall,  Luke,  them  'Syrian  poops  an  card'nals  ha'  tolt 
it  their  way  so  much,  most  ev'rybody  got  to  b'lievin'  it  war 
the  Jews,  'stead  o'  Pilate's  Italyun  soldiers,  w'at  did  the 
lynchin'.  Thar  war  hundreds  an'  hundreds  o'  years  w'en 
church  folks  didn't  dare  have  any  more  sense  than  ye  got, 
Luke,  'bout  Bible  things — in  them  dark  ages.  Ev'rytime  a 
church  feller  'ud  see  a  Jew  he'd  say,  'Ye  crucified  Christ! 
To  hell  wi'ye!'  Then  the  poops  ha'  give  out  metals  to 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  357 

celebrate  the  lynchin'  o'  the  Son  o'  God.  They  ha'  made  a 
cross  with  a  dead  man  on  it  fer  ev'ry  church  member  to 
wear,  an'  them  as  didn't — w'ich  war,  o'  course,  the  Jews, — 
they'd  hang  him  on  a  tree  or  burn  him  to  the  stake.  Ye 
never  heard  o'  a  Jew  celebratin'  the  murder  o'  a  Jew,  Luke, 
much  as  the  Christians  'pear'  to  be  sot  on  doin'  it.  Wen 
the  protestant  churches  war  hatched,  most  o'  the  eggs  ha' 
been  laid  by  the  poops  an*  card'nals.  Sho!  Ye  can't  git 
white  chickens  from  turkle  eggs,  Luke,  jest  by  puttin*  a 
white  hen  on  the  nest." 

"I  ha'  learned  that  much  myself  since  them  dark  ages 
ye  know  so  much  'bout,  Hank,"  said  Luke,  spitefully  send- 
ing a  liquid  barrage  half  way  to  the  sawdust  box.  "I  reckon 
yure  church  critturs  ha'  got  the  noshun  them  dark  ages 
air  still  here.  I  heerd  a  story  onct  'bout  a  priest  feller  w'at 
got  a  Jew  to  jine  the  Cath'lic  church.  The  priest  feller  he 
ha'  poured  some  holy  water  onto  the  Jew  an',  sez  he,  'Onct 
ye  war  a  Jew,  but  now  ye  air  a  Christian,'  an'  he  thought 
the  Jew  b'lieved  it.  One  day,  arterward,  the  priest  feller 
ha*  gone  to  eat  supper  with  the  Jew.  It  war  Friday,  but  the 
Jew  war  only  a  half-breed  Christian,  an'  he  ha'  roasted  a 
chicken.  'Ye  can't  eat  meat  on  Friday,'  sez  the  priest  feller, 
sorry  like.  The  Jew  got  a  dipper  o'  water  an'  arsked  the 
priest  feller  to  hocus  pocus  it  fer  holy  water,  w'ich  he  did. 
Then  the  Jew  ha'  tuk  the  chicken  an'  ha'  poured  the  water 
on  it.  Sez  he:  'Onct  a  chicken,  now  a  fish!  Onct  a 
chicken,  now  a  fish!'  an'  they  ha'  b'lieved  it  war  a  fish, 
sartin  sure." 

"Sho!"  said  Hank.  "That  air  story  I  ha'  heerd  afore 
I  come  to  Old  Town.  I  ha'  heerd  a  better  one  'bout  a  feller 
w'at  met  a  Jew,  an'  'thout  sayin'  's  much  as  'How's  yure 
liver?'  he  starts  in  to  give  the  Jew  a  lickin'.  The  Jew  war 
bigger'n  he  looked,  an'  purty  soon  he  ha'  got  the  wallopper 


358  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

a  sittin'  on  his  hind  legs,  arskin'  fer  peace.  'Wat  ye  jump 
on  me  fer?'  arsks  the  Jew.  'Ye  kilt  Christ!'  sez  the  feller. 
'W'y,  ye  pig-eating'  runt,'  sez  the  Jew,  'Christ  war  kilt  eigh- 
teen hundred  years  ago !'  'Never  heerd  it  afore,  till  yes- 
tiddy,'  sez  the  feller.  'Ye  sh'ud  read  the  papers,'  sez  the 
Jew,  lettin'  the  feller  up." 

"Hank,  I  allus  know'd  Bud  'ud  go  to  Tennessee  sooner 
or  later.  Beats  me  how  he  ha'  got  a  noshun  he  sh'ud  sup- 
port the  feller's  widder  an'  children,  arter  he  kilt  the  feller 
in  the  war.  Think  he  cal'clates  to  marry  her,  Hank  ?" 

"Likes  not,"  said  Hank,  pausing  in  his  work  to  look 
soberly  at  the  old  rancher.  "Bud  air  one  o'  the  real  kind  o' 
heroes  w'at  air  writ  about,  but  a  feller  don't  get  a  chanct 
to  see  more'n  onct  in  a  lifetime,  Luke." 

"S'pose  the  feller  w'at  ha'  kilt  Jack  Powers  ha'  tuk  the 
same  noshun,  Hank.  Guess  ye  don't  find  fellers  like  Bud 
'mong  them  rebels  w'at  hide  their  heads  in  a  piller  case  an' 
burn  a  nigger  to  death." 

"Wall,  Luke,  I  reckon  no  feller  w'at  ha'  been  licked 
air  goin'  to  feel  jest  as  forgivin'  as  the  feller  w'at  ha'  licked 
him.  Molly  ha'  done  purty  well,  'thout  any  man,  since  she 
ha'  been  carryin'  the  mail." 

"Remember  how  the  parson  ha'  kep'  'em  from  lynch- 
in'  them  siwashes,  Hank?  I  ha'  never  told  ye  how  it  war 
the  Widder  Swallow  w'at  done  it.  I  heerd  her  say  to  him 
'If  Billy  Ki-Ki  war  here  he'd  stop  'em.'  The  parson  ha* 
looked  like  he  wanted  to  kill  Billy  fer  a  minnit.  Then  he 
ha'  tackled  the  job  as  good  as  Billy  c'ud  a  done  it." 

"Nancy  warn't  a  widder,  then,  Luke;  an'  ye  ain't  got 
no  right  to  make  out  as  how  the  parson  war  in  love  with 
Dick  Swallow's  wife.  She  ha'  been  a  good  woman,  Luke; 
an'  she  be  liked  mor'n  any  other  woman  in  New  Town." 

"That's   'cause   she   never   jined   yure   church,    Hank. 


CONVERGING  TRAILS  359 

Them  w'at  has  air  a  lot  o'  backbitin'  hypocrites — or  they  be 
too  stiff  neck'd  to  bite.  Burke  Charming  ha'  had  his  belly 
full  o'  church  dope  'fore  he  took  a  notion  to  light  out. 
Think  he'll  ever  turn  up  agin,  Hank?" 

"Like's  not  he  will,  someday,"  said  Hank,  hammering 
unnecessarily  hard  on  Luke's  boot  heel.  Then  he  let  his 
hammer  rest  on  his  aproned  knee  a  moment,  looking  at  the 
grizzled  rancher,  a  grin  twitching  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth. 

"Ye  be  an  ornary  cuss,  Luke,  w'en  ye  git  to  talkin' 
'bout  religion.  I  have  a  right  smart  suspishun  yer  con- 
science ain't  none  too  'commodating'  to  ye,  an'  some  day 
ye'll  be  hikin'  to  the  mourner's  bench — w'en  ye  think  yure 
Judgment  Day's  come." 

Luke  snorted  angrily  and  spat  savagely  at  the  sawdust. 
Before  he  could  answer,  Jeane  Kimball  ran  into  the  shop 
for  her  eggs. 

"Good  morning,  Uncle  Luke,"  she  said,  smiling  pleas- 
antly at  the  old  man.  "How's  your  rheumatism?" 

"Purty  bad!  Jeanie.  Purty  bad!  How  be  all  yure 
folks?" 

"Oh,  everybody's  well  at  home." 

"W'ich  means  ye  don't  take  much  o'  yure  father's  medi- 
cine, I'm  thinkin',  said  Luke  with  a  grin.  "Them  as  does 
be  purty  sick." 

"Were  be  ye  takin'  the  eggs,  Jeanie?"  Hank  asked,  as 
she  drew  her  basket  out  from  under  a  pile  of  leather. 

"Over  to  Aunt  Martha's." 

"Will  ye  take  these  shoes  along  with  ye,  Jeanie?  They 
be  for  the  Widder  Jenkins  across  the  street.  She  hain't 
got  more'n  one  pair,  I'm  thinkin' ;  mebbe  she  don't  want  to 
come  fer  'em  in  her  stockin'  feet. 


CHAPTER  XLIII 
JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY 

From  the  day  Jim  Crawley  rode  into  Old  Town  on 
his  cayuse  and  found  Betty  awaiting  him,  to  a  certain  morn- 
ing in  1885,  when  he  stood  in  the  door  of  his  old  shack 
and  saw,  in  the  distance,  hotel,  houses,  and  store  buildings 
coming  slowly  northward  to  the  tune  of  creaking  rollers 
and  yelling  pony-drivers,  the  big-hearted,  red- whiskered 
Englishman  had  taken  his  wife  down  to  De  Land's  hotel 
every  Sunday  afternoon  to  supper.  And  the  first  Sunday 
of  each  June  he  had  always  invited  the  same  guests,  or  so 
many  of  them  as  were  able  to  come,  whom  he  had  invited 
on  the  day  of  his  wedding,  to  celebrate  the  anniversaries 
of  that  memorable  occasion. 

Since  the  advent  of  the  railroad,  the  removal  of  the 
village  and  the  consequent  change  in  Crawley's  financial 
condition,  the  list  had  grown  to  include  a  dozen  guests,  all 
of  whom  looked  forward  to  these  suppers  as  one  of  the 
principal  features  of  New  Town's  bills  of  enjoyment. 

One,  only,  of  the  original  coterie  of  participants  could, 
but  wouldn't,  take  part  in  the  annual  feast.  Old  Luke 
Waters  had  fallen  away.  He  had  never  sat  at  table  with 
Jim  Crawley  since  it  broke  upon  him  that  the  Englishman 
had  trumped  his  ace,  as  it  were,  and  had  stolen  his  village 
from  under  his  very  nose. 


JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY  361 

Luke  had  been  missed  from  the  circle,  and  never  did 
Crawley  fail  to  drink  a  toast  to  "those  who  war  gone  never 
to  return,  and  to  Mister  Luke  Waters,  the  pioneer  o'  the 
Valley,  w'ose  presence  air  to  be  'oped  fer  on  the  next  hocca- 
sion." 

The  women  folk  also  came  in  for  a  goodly  share  of  the 
genial  host's  compliments;  and  many  a  hearty  laugh  had 
helped  to  bring  the  roses  again  to  Nancy  Swallow's  cheeks 
and  to  make  the  good  wife  of  Doctor  Kimball  forget  her 
own  domestic  worries  and,  for  the  time  being,  the  physical 
suffering  of  her  husband's  patients,  with  whom  she  always 
tried  to  keep  in  touch. 

On  the  Sunday  afternoon  following  Tom  Payne's  ar- 
rival in  New  Town,  there  were  few  vacant  seats  in  the  dining 
room  of  the  DeLand  House,  as  it  was  now  called.  Some 
of  the  guests  we  have  not  known;  but  one  of  our  old  friends 
from  whom  we  have  heard  nothing  for  many  years,  was 
there  on  Crawley's  right  hand — Billy  Ki-Ki,  formerly,  but 
now  William  Carruthers,  the  cattle  king. 

"As  ha'  been  our  custom,"  began  Crawley,  at  the  head 
of  the  table,  as  the  guests  prepared  to  seat  themselves,  "we 
will  feel,  in  our  'earts,  thankfulness  fer  this  'appy  hocca- 
sion,  and  'ope  them  as  can't  be  'ere  today  will  jine  us  next 
time." 

Then  he  turned  to  his  wife,  Betty,  and  with  as  tender 
a  look  as  a  lover  ever  gave  a  sweetheart  in  courting  days, 
he  added: 

"An'  we'll  now  drink  a  wee  bit  to  the  wife  o'  me  old 
'eart,  who's  the  best  wife  a  man  ever  'ad,  an'  who's  goin' 
to  fergive  me  some  day  fer  bein'  a  fool  fer  thirty  years." 
At  which  Betty  blushed  and  smiled  back  at  Jim  exactly  as 
she  did  years  before  when  he  kissed  her  lips  beneath  the 
bonnet  of  roses  and  green  leaves. 


362  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Who  war  to  'ear  the  lectur'  o'  the  helectrical  feller 
last  night?"  he  asked,  when  everyone  had  been  served  with 
soup. 

"I,  for  one,  was  there,"  said  Doc  Carmel,  the  post- 
master. 

"An'  ye  war  'bout  thinkin'  ye  war  in  the  middle  o'  no- 
where, wit'  nothin'  all  'round  ye,  now,  warn't  ye  ? — af ore  he 
got  through  wit'  all  them  demmystrashuns."  Crawley 
chuckled  and  wiped  the  soup  off  his  whiskers. 

"I  understood  it  all  perfectly,  perfectly,"  said  Doc,  with 
a  little  egotism. 

"Tell  us  about  it,  Mr.  Crawley,  do !"  urged  the  Widow 
Jenkins,  otherwise  known  as  the  "relic  of  old  Bumpy." 

"Wall,  me  an'  Betty  war  thar,  an'  w'at  wit'  bells  ring- 
in'  an'  the  rattlin'  o'  some  bloomin'  contreevance  agin  a 
piece  o'  bladder,  an'  the  bloomin'  rope  w'at  kept  a  spittin' 
fire  an'  stinkin'  the  hatmosphere  worse  nor  a  lot  o'  calves 
under  a  brandin'  iron,  it  war  hinterestin'  to  the  last  ditch. 
Then  w'at  does  Luke  do  but  'e  'oilers  out  an'  'e  sez :  'Were 
do  a  feller  git  some  o'  your  medicine,  young  man?'  Luke 
war  thinkin'  it  war  a  demmystrashun  o'  some  helectric 
hointment  or  other." 

Crawley  paused  here  to  propose  the  usual  toast  to  his 
erstwhile  friend. 

"W'at  did  'ee  haf  to  sell,  Jeem?"  asked  DeLand. 

"Honly  a  book,  a  'booklet'  'e  calls  it,  at  a  shillun,  Eng- 
lish money,  'guaranteed,'  'e  sez,  'to  tell  a  man  more  largical 
facts  about  dinnymetrical  construction — '  " 

"Helectrical  construction,"  corrected  Betty. 

"W'at  war  it  'bout  dinny,  dinny — " 

"You  mean  dynamo,"  prompted  Doc. 

"Dinnymo  it  war,  an'  a  bloomin'  bit  o'  gearin'  w'at 
went  like  a  streak  o'  greased  lightnin',  an'  reared  up  like  a 


JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY  363 

house  afire,  as  the — "  (interrupted  here  by  a  nudge  from 
Betty),  "an'  it  came  near  to  kickin'  hover  the  traces  a  time 
or  two." 

"But  what  was  it  all  about,  Mr.  Crawley?  Tell  us 
what  he  said,  or  did,  please  do!"  again  urged  Widow  Jen- 
kins. 

"Wall,  I  dunno  but  Doc  can  tell  ye  better,  bein's  'ow  'e 
hunderstands  helectrical  demmystrashuns ;  honly  Doc's 
liable  to  be  prejiced  a  leetle,  seem'  as  'ow  the  feller  hit  out 
right'n  left  agin  doctors,  an'  partic'lar  agin  Doc's  pills." 
Crawley  started  to  chuckle,  but  stopped  short  at  a  poke 
from  Betty. 

"Jim!"  she  said;  and  Jim  knew  he  was  off  the  track, 
somewhere. 

Everyone  else,  including  Doc,  laughed  heartily;  for, 
as  they  all  knew,  the  postmaster,  when  not  busy  sorting  let- 
ters and  reading  postal  cards,  was  wont  to  adjourn  to  a 
backroom  where  he  kept  a  big  hunk  of  gray-looking  dough 
which  he  dexteriously  rolled  up  into  little  pills. 

That  part  of  their  secret  which  related  to  the  composi- 
tion was  kept  from  the  prying  eyes  of  the  public,  but  the 
directions  were  printed  in  plain  letters  on  every  box  and  the 
dose  was,  undoubtedly,  the  most  intricate  part  of  the  busi- 
ness. 

The  quantity  to  be  taken  was  governed  somewhat  by 
the  law  of  subtraction,  multiplication  and  division.  The 
first  dose  was  a  lonely  pill,  on  going  to  bed;  the  second, 
in  the  morning,  was  to  be  twice  the  one  preceeding;  the 
third,  one-half  the  second  plus  twice  the  one  preceeding 
that;  and  so  on,  before  each  meal  and  before  going  to  bed 
until,  it  was  said,  it  took  a  man  all  one  day  to  figure  out 
what  his  doses  should  be  on  the  day  following. 

Crawley  had  tried  the  efficacy  of  these  pills,  as  he  had 


364  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

related  at  a  previous  dinner,  only  he  had  "read  the  letterin' 
on  the  box,  an'  got  so  twisted  up  in  the  multiplication  table 
and  the  rule  o'  three,  that  to  save  his  bloomin'  mind  he  tuk 
the  hull  mess  to  onct,  an'  it  never  teched  him." 

"You're  doing  well,  Jim,"  said  Doc,  good-naturedly, 
after  the  laughter  had  subsided,  and  DeLand's  daughters 
had  replaced  their  empty  soup  bowls  with  some  canned  sal- 
mon. 

"Wall,"  began  Crawley,  "thar  war  a  goodly  crowd, 
bein'  as  it  war  free.  An'  thar  war  a  lot  o'  wires  an'  ma- 
chinery set  up  on  the  stage,  as  I  war  sayin'.  Arter  the  feller 
makes  'is  bow,  'e  sez,  sez  'e,  'The  'uman  body  'as  allus  been 
a  mystery  to  science,'  'e  sez,  'because  science  never  hunder- 
stood  it;  but  w'en  ye  knows  about  it,  hit's  easy  like  knock- 
in'  down  a  row  o'  nine  pins.'  'Man,'  sez  'e,  'is  a  perfect  helec- 
tric  machine,  like  a  street  railway  w'at  goes  by  helectricity. 
'Is  body  is  the  power  house,  an'  the  wires  on  the  streets  air 
the  nerves.  The  sparks  w'at  ye  see  fly  off  the  wires,  air 
thoughts,'  'e  sez.  W'en  'e  sez  that,  he  puts  'is  finger  on 
suthin'  an'  a  dingus  w'irled  'round  a  hummin',  an'  lot  o' 
sparks  flew  off  a  black  string  as  war  stretched  hover  the 
hawdiences'  'eads.  'Them  thoughts  air  physical  things,'  sez 
'e.  'They're  stinkin'  things,'  I  sez  to  Betty;  fer  at  onct  I 
smelt  a  stink  like  burnin'  o'  feathers." 

"It  was  a  chemical  preparation  that  he  applied,"  Doc 
volunteered.  "He  put  a  feather  here  and  there  on  the 
wire ;  that  was  what  you  smelt." 

'  "But  there  be  some  truth  in  that,'  sez  I  to  Betty,  'fer 
some  fellers'  thoughts  do  raise  a  stink,  fer  a  fact.'  Then  'e 
pushes  a  button,  an'  a  bell  w'at  'e  'ad  fastened  up  on  th' 
wall  rings  like  hall  git  out.  'Now,'  sez  the  feller,  'this  is  the 
helectric  bell  system.  This  button  be  one  o'  the  five  senses, 
an'  w'en  it  feels  my  tech,'  'e  sez,  'it  goes  through  the  hull 


JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY  365 

system  lickity-split,  till  hit  reaches  the  bell,  w'ich  is  the 
brain,  an'  the  bell  rings  off  thoughts  in  accordance/  'e  sez, 
'to  the  way  the  spirit  in  a  man  vibrates  agin  the  mind/  or 
suthin'  o'  that  natur'.  'Wat  makes  the  bell  ring?'  'e  arsks; 
an'  some  kid  'oilers  out,  'You  did!'  an'  the  feller  laughs 
'No/  'e  sez,  'hits  hopposing  affluences." 

"Hopposing  influences,"  corrected  Betty. 

"Anyhow,  the  feller  sez,  'I've  got  two  sets  o'  nerves 
'ere,  'e  sez,  'an'  each  wants  to  move  agin  the  other.  The 
result/  sez  'e,  'is  vibrashuns.  These  vibrashuns/  sez  'e,  an' 
with  that  'e  pushes  another  button  w'ich  makes  a  dingus 
buzz  up  and  down  so  fast  ye  couldn't  see  nothin'  but  the 
noise.  'These  air  vibrashuns/  'e  sez,  'an'  they  go  into  the 
brain  on  these  nerves.  Now/  sez  'e,  'Christian  Science, 
w'at's  the  new  religion  goin'  round,  hit  sez  ye  must  go  to 
work  on  the  brain  if  ye  be  sick  or  sinful.  Hit's  like  'itchin' 
the  cart  afore  th'  'orse/  'e  sez,  'an'  in  a  minnit  I'll  show  ye 
w'y  the  cart  can't  pull  the  'orse/  He  takes  a  bottle  o'  suthin' 
an'  puts  a  few  drops  in  a  big  glass  jar,  w'ich  'e  calls  a  bat- 
tery. The  wires  w'at  war  strung  'round  'is  'ead  come  out 
o'  this  jar,  an'  thar  war  a  lot  o'  thingabobs  in  it  besides. 
Then  'e  pushes  the  button,  but  the  bell  didn't  make  no  more 
noise  than  a  snowflake.  'See/  sez  'e,  'I  never  teched  the 
brain,  an'  it  be  jest  as  perfect  as  before.  I  honly  put  some 
liver'n  vigerator  an'  kidney  cure  in  the  'cart's  blood  o'  the 
system/  'e  sez.  'This  be  the  'eart/  'e  sez,  pintin'  at  the  jar. 
'Wat  be  the  thingabobs  in  thar?'  'Hank  Evans  arsks.  'Be 
them  the  lights?'  'e  arsks.  Everybody  laughed,  an'  the  fel- 
ler fergot  w'at  the  question  war. 

"  'So  ye  see/  'e  sez,  'if  yer  'eart  ain't  right,  yer  brain 
won't  work  right,  'cause  the  scriptur'  sez  all  thoughts 
come  from  the  'eart.  Ye  can't  make  yer  brain  work  yer 
'eart  no  more'n  ye  can  make  a  cart  pull  the  'orse/  'e  sez, 


366  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

w'ich  did  seem  reasonable  like,  as  I  remarks  to  Betty.  'Now,' 
sez  the  feller,  goin'  on,  'a  man's  'eart  is  like  a  dinnymo,'  an' 
'ere  'e  pushes  another  button,  an'  a  big  w'eel  goes  round  a 
kitin',  an'  no  belts  as  I  could  see  annyw'eres.  'This  be  a 
dinnymo,'  'e  sez,  'an'  it  absorbs  helectricity  out'n  the  hat- 
mosphere, — 'warn't  it,  Betty?" 

"There  war  seven  kinds  of  helectricity  'e  talked  about/ 
said  Betty,  taxing  her  memory. 

"Right,  Betty;  An'  'e  sez,  'w'en  it  habsorbs  the  right 
kind  o'  helectricity  everythink  goes  lovely;  but  w'en  the 
hatmosphere  is  full  o'  wicked  thoughts,  an'  hevil  smells, 
it  makes  unnatural  vibrashuns,  an*  first  thing  a  man  knows, 
'is  'eart  is  goin'  in  the  wrong  direction.'  'Eere  'e  does 
suthin'  w'ich  makes  the  big  w'eel  go  t'other  way,  an'  the 
hull  business  near  blew  up.  Everybody  war  scared  fer  a 
minnit,  but  the  feller  war  cool,  an'  'e  sez,  That's  w'at  'ap- 
pens  w'en  ye  gits  to  wantin'  suthin'  that  air  agin  natur'l 
laws.  Honly,'  sez  'e,  'it  don't  bust  ye  up  so  quick.  It  goes 
slower  with  a  man,'  'e  sez,  'an'  nobody  can  tell  w'at  ails  ye, 
but  the  doctors  give  ye  a  lot  o'  drugs  and  pills  w'at  makes 
ye  rot  all  over.  Once,'  'e  goes  on  to  say,  'hev'ry  man  an' 
woman  war  perfect  in  hev'ry  way,  an'  'andsome,'  'e  sez, 
'but  look  at  'em  now,  or  some  on  'em,'  sez  'e.  'Look  at  yer- 
self !'  some  feller  hollers,  sassy-like,  but  he  didn't  take  no 
notice.  'Wat  do  doctors  know  about  the  'human  dinnymo  ?' 
'e  arsks;  but  nobody  answered.  That  war  the  time  fer 
Doc  to  tell  about  'is  pills,  but  'e  let  the  hoccasion  slip,  as 
the — wall,  'e  goes  on  to  tell  that  medicine  conflicts  with 
w'at  the  helectricity  is  tryin'  to  do  in  the  human  dinnymo, 
an'  that  everybody's  got  suthin'  the  matter  with  'em;  w'ich 
ain't  no  lie,  right  'ere  in  New  Town,  spite  o'  Doc's  pills." 

"Eet  ees  ver'  true,"  said  DeLand.     "I  haf  count  thir- 


JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY  367 

teen  doctair  here.    Ees  eet  ee  sells  la  doctair  book,  tomor- 
row, Jeem?" 

"Ye  can  git  one  on  'em,  I  guess,  if  ye  git  up  airly 
enough ;  but  I  'card  as  'ow  'e  war  goin'  away  tomorry." 

"Was  that  all,  Mr.  Crawley?     If  not,  do  tell  us  all, 
please,  do,"  from  the  relic  of  old  "Bumpy." 

"Arter  'e  war  through,"  Crawley  went  on,  "  'e  arsks 
anybody  as  wanted  to  arsk  questions  to  come  up  to  the 
platform.  O'  course  Heath's  boy  wanted  to  know  suthin', 
an'  no  wonder,  po'r  feller.  'E's  'ad  'is  belly  full  o'  doctor'n, 
an'  none  on  'em  'elped  'im  more'n  a  rabbit.  'Wat  makes 
the  vibrashuns  go  from  'ere  to  the  brain?'  'e  arsks,  pintin' 
at  one  o'  the  buttons,  an'  ev'rybody  ha'  listened  to  'ear.  'The 
spirit,'  sez  the  feller.  'Wat  be  that?'  some  woman  on  a 
front  seat  arsked,  scared  like.  'God  honly  knows!'  'e  sez. 
'Not  them  as  knows  all  about  it,'  'e  sez,  'knows  w'at  it  is  or 
w'ere  it  comes  from.'  Then  'e  goes  on  to  say  as  'ow  the 
helectric  spirit  in  the  human  body  is  made  to  git  hot  or  cold 
by  houtside  natural  influences,  an'  w'en  it  gits  hot  it  burns 
up  the  disease,  an'  a  feller  gits  well,'  'e  sez.  'Wat  makes  it 
'ot?'  arsks  Heath's  boy.  'Faith  in  God,'  sez  the  feller,  pious 
like.  'C'ud  it  make'his  feet  straight?'  arsks  the  po'r  boy. 
I  dunno  w'at  'appened  arterward,  fer  I  sez  to  Betty,  'let's 
git  hout  afore  'e  makes  that  rope  stink  agin.  So  we  got  one 
'o  the  booklets  an'  lit  hout." 

"Missus  Remnant  ha'  told  me  'e  said  suthink  about 
devils,"  said  Betty.  "W'at  were  it,  Mr.  Carmel  ?" 

"Young  Lattimer  arsked  him  w'ere  the  devil  came  from, 
and  it  stumped  him  for  a  minute.  Then  he  told  the  boy  to 
come  over  to  his  boarding  house  this  afternoon  and  he  would 
tell  him  about  many  kinds  of  devils." 

"Mebbe  they  can  scare  up  a  devil  or  two  w'at's  'idin' 
hinside  some  o'  the  churches  'ere,"  suggested  Crawley,  and 
immediately  he  got  a  nudge  from  Betty. 


368  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Trouble  with  the  churches  now-a-days,"  said  Billy,  "is 
that  the  preachers  don't  want  to  offend  those  who  might 
come  in  and  help  pay  the  fiddler.  What  the  world  wants 
now  is  something  practical.  The  churches  are  crying: 
'Come  to  us  and  be  saved!'  If  some  preacher  would  say: 
'Come  to  our  church  and  we'll  cure  your  consumption  and 
your  rheumatism,  and  your  crooked  feet,'  he'd  have  the 
other  fellers  skinned  for  a  practical  religion." 

"That  air  the  kind  the  scripturj  tells  about,"  said 
Betty. 

"And  the  other  churches  would  want  him  crucified  at 
once,"  said  Doc. 

And  so  the  conversation  went  from  one  thing  to  another 
until  the  dinner  had  disappeared.  Then  Billy  Ki-Ki  left  the 
party,  happy  in  the  hotel  parlor,  and,  as  was  invariably  his 
custom,  went  over  to  the  "Swallows  Nest"  to  spend  the  eve- 
ning. 


The  day  that  Payne  went  away,  Nancy  sat  for  a  long 
time  at  the  window,  looking  after  the  trail  of  smoke  that 
had  scattered  among  the  hills. 

"If  he  knew,"  she  said,  at  last,  aloud,  "I  believe  he 
would  understand.  I  shall  always  be  afraid.  Oh,  if  there 
was  something  I  could  do! — some  sacrifice!  to  feel  that  I 
had  made  things  right.  Oh,  Maidie,  Maidie !  May  your  God 
protect  you! — for  I  tremble,  and  I  am  afraid.  Why? 
There  is  no  danger.  Yet  I  am  afraid — oh,  I  am  afraid! 
If  he  should  know — and  should  find  me  here!  My  God! 
What  could  I  do!  God!  God!  I  wonder  if  He  was!  Tom 
seems  to  believe  it  all." 

"Who  is  here,  Nancy?"  Mrs.  Brown  felt  her  way  into 
the  room.  "I  heard  you  talking  to  someone." 

Only  to  myself,  Minnie ;  only  to  myself."    Hysterically, 


JIM  CRAWLEY'S  DINNER  PARTY  369 

she  rose,  and  threw  her  arms  around  the  other  woman. 
"You  are  so  patient,  so  trustful  of  the  future,  dear,  while  I 
fear !  I  fear !  I  fear ! — I  don't  know  what.  Is  it  because  you 
believe  in  God?" 

"I  have  none  else  but  Him  and  you  to  trust  in — helpless 
outcast  that  I  am,"  the  other  answered.  "God  brought  you 
to  me." 

"Oh,  shall  I?  Shall  I  tell  you?"  Nancy  cried.  "Shall 
I  tell  you  that  I  was  an  outcast,  once  ?  Yes,  yes !  I  was  ten 
times  worse  than  you — till  Dick  came.  Perhaps  your  God 
sent  him  to  me.  Sit  down,  here,  dear,  and  let  me  tell  you. 
Maybe  it  will  make  me  braver  if  you  know." 

The  blind  woman  sat  down;  and  on  the  floor,  at  her 
feet,  knelt  Nancy,  telling,  between  her  tears,  the  chapter  of 
her  life  that  she  had  kept  so  long  hidden  away.  When  she 
was  through,  the  other,  crying  softly,  bent  forward,  and 
gently  kissed  the  head  of  the  sobbing  woman. 

"God  has  forgiven  you,  Nancy,"  she  said;  "and  can 
I  do  less  now  than  forgive  him  who  saved  you  from  that 
awful  life?" 

Outside,  the  roses  moved  gently  in  the  breeze,  and 
nodded  at  each  other,  as  if  they  heard  and  understood. 

Who  knows?  Perhaps  the  color  of  the  flower,  its 
fragrance,  its  modest  purity,  is  shaped,  somewise,  by  the 
harmony  of  souls  in  sympathy. 

Surely,  some  great  law  of  nature  moves,  when  a  human 
heart  looks  up  to  a  new  light,  a  new  hope,  a  new  world. 


CHAPTER  XLIV 
THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE 

In  the  summer  almost  everyone  in  Washington  goes 
to  the  mountains,  to  the  springs,  or  to  the  coast  to  spend  the 
hot  days  of  July  and  August.  It  was  the  great  event  of 
New  Town,  to  which  all  the  young  people,  and  many  of 
the  older  ones,  eagerly  looked  forward. 

There  are  silent  voices  in  the  trees  and  flowers,  the  mead- 
ows, the  mountains,  the  seas  and  the  flowing  waters,  all  of 
which  are  telling  us  of  the  wonderful  things  we  should  know 
and  do.  And  if  we  would  but  understand  the  silent  voices 
of  these  natural,  living  things,  we  should  ascend  to  heights 
of  wisdom  and  accomplishment  heretofore  unknown. 

Have  you  never  found,  when  you  were  in  the  heart  of 
nature,  that  thoughts  were  coming  into  your  brain — thoughts 
that  seemed  to  come,  without  your  will,  from  a  great,  un- 
known source  ? — that  seemed  to  fill  your  being  with  a  strange, 
new  kind  of  life,  and  to  lift  you  out  of  the  old  rut,  to  a 
higher  plane,  to  a  higher  conception  of  life's  purpose? 

This  is  Wisdom  that  "cometh  into  the  heart  of  man." 

And  it  is  wonderful  how  one's  nature  broadens,  and 

how  the  human  heart  warms  to  its  kind  Lmong  the  hills,  the 

forests,  or  beneath  the  life-giving  sunshine  on  the  broad, 

boundless  plain. 

How  little  and  narrow  and  dead  all  the  remainder  of 
the  year  seemed,  compared  with  those  weeks  in  camp,  be- 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE     371 

side  the  clear  water,  where  body  and  soul  and  spirit  are  re- 
established by  the  unpolluted,  timber-scented  air,  and  from 
the  sweet  vapors  of  the  living,  breathing,  prairie  flowers. 

The  place  to  which  one  part  of  New  Town's  young  folk 
turned  their  happy  faces  every  summer  was  Lake  Katchees. 
It  is  a  beautiful,  shimmering  sheet  of  clear,  warm  water, 
fed  by  hot  springs  and  lies,  silent,  among  the  peaks  of  the 
Cascades. 

Nancy,  Mrs.  Kimball  and  a  few  other  mothers  of  the 
village  made  up  a  party  of  sons  and  daughters  and  pre- 
pared to  go  mountainward  the  first  week  in  July.  They 
packed  their  tents,  camp  utensils  and  the  few  things  neces- 
sary to  make  outdoor  life  a  pleasure. 

But  at  the  last  moment  a  disappointment  had  come, 
at  the  very  moment  the  train  was  due  to  take  them  north- 
ward. Maidie  had  come  from  the  postoffice  with  a  letter 
for  her  mother. 

"It's  from  Mr.  Payne,"  she  said.  Maidie  caught  a 
trace  of  excitement  in  her  voice. 

"Will  he  be  here  to  go  with  us"  she  asked  eagerly. 

"He  does  not  say.  What  he  does  say,  though,  makes  it 
impossible  for  me  to  go  with  you  now." 

"Oh !    Oh !    Oh !"  came  a  chorus  of  voices. 

Maidie  followed  her  mother  into  the  parlor. 

"I  must  start  for  San  Francisco  at  once,"  she  said  after 
she  had  closed  the  door.  It  is  important.  I  will  tell  only 
you,  Maidie,  and  you  must  say  nothing  about  it  to  anyone 
else.  Mr.  Payne  thinks  he  has  located  your  Uncle  Burke  in 
San  Francisco.  If  it  is  he,  I  fear  the  only  one  who  can 
bring  him  home  is  myself.  There  are  some  things  I  cannot 
tell,  even  to  you,  dear;  but  I  fear  your  Uncle  Burke  will 
never  come  back  until  I  can  see  him  and  tell  him  something 
that  I,  alone,  know.  I  shall  start  tomorrow.  You  go  on 


372  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

with  the  rest  to  Lake  Katchees  and  I  will  join  you  when  I 
return." 

"Oh,  I  hope  it  is  Uncle  Burke!  Won't  Aunt  Martha 
be  happy;  and  Bess,  too." 

"But  you  must  say  nothing,  dear." 

"No,  mamma." 

"I  will  telegraph  you  if  there  is  any  good  news,  and 
then  you  can  come  in  from  camp  and  tell  Aunt  Martha,  so 
she  will  know  Uncle  Burke  is  on  his  way  home." 

So,  on  the  following  day  as  the  delayed  camping  party 
was  speeding  to  the  lake  among  the  mountains,  a  train  bore 
Nancy  Swallow  south  to  the  city  she  had  hoped  never  to  see 
again. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  fourth  day  when  she 
got  out  of  the  train  at  Oakland  and  took  the  ferry  over  to 
San  Francisco.  Arriving  there,  she  got  into  a  carriage,  and 
told  the  driver  to  take  her  to  a  first-class  hotel,  near  the 
docks. 

"No  first-class  hotel  there,  lady — not'at'll  suit  you,"  he 
said,  looking  her  over,  critically. 

"Well,  the  nearest  one,  then,  where  I  can  get  a  car 
easily." 

He  cracked  his  whip,  and  she  was  soon  whirling  along 
the  streets.  She  looked  about  for  familiar  scenes.  She 
read  the  names  of  various  streets  and  avenues,  recalling  them 
to  mind.  The  driver  stopped  before  the  Grand,  a  compara- 
tively new  hotel,  with  a  footbridge  suspended  over  the  thor- 
oughfare, connected  with  a  larger  building  across  the  way. 

She  paid  the  fare,  entered  the  hotel,  and  was  shown  to 
a  room.  They  told  her  the  dining-room  should  be  open  in 
an  hour.  She  could  only  wait.  So  she  drew  a  chair  to  the 
window  and,  seating  herself,  looked  off  into  the  clear, 
quiet  sky. 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE     373 

She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  go  out,  immediately  after 
supper,  and  begin  her  search  for  Burke.  She  would  be 
more  sure  to  find  him  at  night,  she  reasoned.  It  did  not 
occur  to  her  how  dangerous  it  might  be,  to  go  into  that  part 
of  the  city  known  as  Barbary  Coast,  alone,  after  the  lights 
were  lit.  Tom  Payne  had  told  her  she  would  probably  find 
him  there,  if  he  was  not  found  at  the  place  designated  in 
his  letter. 

She  hoped  she  could  start  home  with  him  that  very 
night.  She  was  already  longing  for  the  quiet  of  her  home 
town.  She  wondered  how  a  person  could  ever  get  accus- 
tomed to  the  rattle  and  clatter  of  busses  and  wagons  over 
the  pavement,  the  clanging  of  gongs,  and  the  mad  rush  of 
people  in  every  direction. 

Back  again  in  the  city  to  which  her  thoughts,  of  late, 
turned  as  to  a  hideous  nightmare,  she  was  not  in  the  least 
afraid.  She  had,  now,  no*  fear  of  meeting  any  of  her  former 
acquaintances.  She  even  wondered  if  she  could  find  the 
building  that  had  sheltered  her  and  had  hidden  a  part  of  her 
life  away,  like  a  great  chest  that  had  passed,  with  all  its  con- 
tents, into  strange  hands.  She  recalled  that  it  was  some- 
where near  Portsmouth  Square,  but  the  street  name  she 
had  forgotten. 

She  was  not  afraid.  She  had  never  been  afraid  for 
herself — only  for  Maidie.  She  would  like — yes,  she  would 
even  like  to  meet  him,  now  that  she  was  here.  She  would 
like  to  know  if  she  must  always  fear  that  some  day  he  would 
appear  in  New  Town,  before  them  all,  and  draw  his  lips 
apart  in  the  way  he  used  to  smile,  showing  his  even,  white 
teeth.  Yes,  she  would  like  to  make  sure  of  what  there 
might  be  in  store  for  her. 

She  had  not  cared — had  not  thought  about  it,  at  all,  until 
the  day  Tom  Payne  had  startled  her,  so  suddenly,  in  her 
home.  What  if  it  had  been  Larrabie !  The  sudden  awaken- 


374  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

ing  had  sent  her  thoughts  scurrying  over  the  seventeen 
years ;  and  how  often,  since,  had  she  asked  herself  that  same 
question ! 

She  had  not  thought  of  it  before,  but  she  wondered, 
now,  if  Dick,  struggling  vainly  for  life  in  the  camp  among 
the  Ahtanum  hills,  could  have  told  Billy  anything  of — of 
that.  She  learned,  long  afterward,  that  he  had  told  him  of 
a  little  boy  and  a  blind  woman,  wronged  and  deserted,  back 
in  an  Eastern  town;  and  Billy  had  kept  the  secret  for  her 
sake,  sending,  each  month,  the  money  that  was  to  keep  the 
blackmailing  grandfather's  lips  closed. 

Then  she  had  learned  the  story:  only  a  paper  in  the 
pocket  of  a  cast  off  garment;  but  the  faded  ink  traced  out 
the  words  that  took  her  flying  eastward.  How  strange  that 
she  had  reached  them  just  as  the  last  bit  of  coal  was  gone, 
the  last  bit  of  food  was  gone,  almost  the  last  hope  was  gone ! 

Was  it  all  chance?  Or,  was  there  some  great  Being 
called,  God,  who  controlled  everything,  was  responsible  for 
everything?  If  so,  He  was  a  horrid  monster — but,  maybe, 
this  God  had  had  something  to  do  with  it  all,  the  letter,  the 
old  coat,  the  empty  hearts,  the  blind  eyes,  Dick's  death !  Yes, 
Dick's  death!  Surely  Dick  had  done  an  awful  thing! 

Had  not  Martha  said,  time  and  again,  that  God  pun- 
ishes the  wicked?  And  sorrow  had  come  to  her — for  she 
had  been  wicked.  She  could  see  it,  now.  Martha  had  said, 
— and  her  father,  the  old  minister,  had  said,  too — that  whom 
God  loves,  to  them  he  brings  sorrow  and  trouble,  and  sick- 
ness. He  had  brought  sorrow  to  Martha — and  she  was 
good. 

What  a  strange  God !  and  what  a  strange  kind  of  love ! 

She  couldn't  understand  it Maybe  God  had 

brought  her  here,  now,  to  find  Burke — just  when  most  he 
needed  her — or  someone.  Perhaps  there  were  a  lot  of  things 
she  might  do,  just  when  she  would  be  needed  most — if  she 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE     375 

could  only  believe  God  was    ....    and  could  find  out, 
some  way,  just  what  they  were. 

Was  there  any  way  to  find  out?  Surely,  if  God  was, 
there  ought  to  be  some  way  ...  to  find  out  .  .  . 
if  He  knew — she — would — be — glad — to — do — them ! 

The  hurrying  of  feet  through  the  hall  aroused  her. 
She  opened  her  eyes,  and  realized  the  hour  had  flitted  by, 
and  that  supper  was  being  served. 

Looking  from  her  window,  she  saw  the  big,  red  sun 
go  down,  into  a  great,  stretched-out  bank  of  fog,  leaving  it 
filled  with  a  liquid  gold,  to  float  down,  like  a  huge  thing  of 
life,  among  the  hills  of  the  city. 

An  hour  later,  she  was  on  a  car  going  toward  the  bay. 

They  had  gone  but  a  short  distance,  when  the  car 
stopped,  and  the  conductor  informed  the  passengers  there 
was  a  blockade.  He  directed  them  to  a  parallel  line,  a  short 
distance  away. 

As  she  stepped  from  the  car,  Nancy  found  herself  at 
the  edge  of  a  crowd,  gathered  about  a  man  who  was  talking 
from  the  elevation  of  a  packing-case. 

"They  tell  you  every  sinner  goes  to  hell.    It  is  a  lie!" 

Nancy  caught  the  words,  and  paused  to  listen.  He  was 
a  young  man,  bushy  black  hair,  finger-combed  back  from 
a  high,  white  forehead.  His  intensely  bright  eyes  held  the 
attention  of  the  crowd.  His  quick  glance,  skipping  from  face 
to  face,  went  to  Nancy,  and  she,  too,  felt  the  fascination. 
She  pushed  in  closer  to  him. 

"We  are  all  sinners.  'He  that  saith  he  is  without  sin  is 
a  liar,  and  the  truth  abideth  not  in  him.' "  He  was  quoting 
from  a  book,  closed,  in  an  uplifted  hand. 

"We  are  all  sinners — as  sin  is  measured  by  the  Word 
of  God,"  he  shouted.  "They  are  not  doomed  to  hell  just 
because  they  sin.  Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  sinners 


376  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

scarcely  know  the  false  from  true.  They  never  had  a 
chance.  No,  God  pity  them !  They  never  had  a  chance. 

"Born  in  the  dark  alleys  of  poverty  and  degradation, 
they  push  up  through  the  bars  of  horrible  environment, 
scarcely  knowing  they  are  born,  and  surely  with  but  little 
chance  of  knowing  why? 

"From  the  attic  cradle  to  a  stunted  boyhood  they  look 
through  the  cob-webbed  cracks  of  light  to  the  brighter  side 
of  life,  and  it  seems  as  far  as  to  the  blue  heaven  above. 

"They  stagger  along  under  a  burden  of  inherited  pas- 
sions, of  lust  and  hate,  into  what  should  be  manhood,  nettled 
and  irascible  from  the  soul  pains  that  come  to  all  alike  in 
struggling  to  free  the  fretting  instincts  of  that  God  nature, 
which  is  the  divine  germ  in  every  seed.  They,  all  too  early, 
learn  to  covet  and  to  hate,  to  imagine  wrongs  that  are  not 
real,  and  to  hope  for  a  some-day  brutal  chance  to  even  up 
the  tilted  side  of  life." 

"God  pity  them!"  a  woman  cried,  in  earnestness,  from 
the  crowd. 

"Aye,  God  pity  them !"  he  answered.  "And  then  come 
men,  or  what  should  be  men,  graduated  through  these  scut- 
tle-holes of  life,  dwarfed  in  wisdom,  stuffed  with  a  dan- 
gerous knowledge,  and  backed  by  the  lie  of  Church  and 
Creed,  'an  eye  for  an  eye,  tooth  for  tooth/  they  almost 
smother  out  the  flickering  sparks  of  that  godly  birthright, 
heaping  fuel  on  the  flaming  malice  and  malicious  envy.  God 
pity  them!  God  pity  such  humanity  in  the  horrors  of  such 
soul-strangling  environment." 

"Damned  capitalists  are  to  blame !"  yelled  a  man,  black- 
shirted,  and  grim  with  the  day's  sweat  and  grime.  The 
speaker  looked  at  him,  and  his  glance  swept  from  one  to  an- 
other, dark  scowling  faces,  reflecting  every  burden  of  human 
toll. 

"You  blame  the  capitalist.     You  claim  it  all  should  be 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE     377 

laid  at  the  door  of  those  men  of  greed  who  pass  by  on  the 
other  side.  This  may  be  so,  or  partly  so.  But  let  me  tell 
you  that  in  the  very  midst  of  all  that  horrible  environment, 
above  the  caldron  of  hopes  and  hates  and  hell  which  steams 
to  heaven,  in  the  very  core  of  this  ulcerating  underworld  of 
human  lives,  is  a  power  a  million  times  greater  than  capital- 
ism, or  greed,  or  gold. 

"It  is  the  power  of  the  heart's  desire !  Oh,  the  power 
of  the  human  heart !  to  reason,  to  hope,  to  desire.  The  vefy 
gates  of  heaven  must  swing  back  when  a  human  heart 
awakes  to  all  its  force  in  the  power  of  the  heart's  desire." 

"Amen !"  "Amen !"  came  from  several  throats,  strangely 
contrasting  with  the  rough,  unkempt  appearance  and  surly 
looks. 

"Listen !"  cried  the  speaker,  his  outsretched  hands  com- 
manding silence.  "You  men  who  want  a  change  in  govern- 
ment, a  change  from  your  lowly  cringing  fear  of  a  heartless 
master,  to  a  God-intended  place  in  human  life,  you  cannot 
get  that  change  by  votes.  You  cannot  change  your  lot  by 
changing  governments  by  votes.  You  cannot  change  the 
heart  of  man  or  woman  at  the  ballot  box.  You  cannot 
change  your  lot  by  changing  governments  by  force,  by  kill- 
ing those  who  rule.  Listen!  there  is  only  one  way — never 
has  been,  never  will  be  but  one  way  to  turn  this  misrule  of 
men  into  righteous  co-operation:  It  is  through  prayer — 
through  the  heart's  desire.  Pray !  Pray  to  the  Man  above, 
who  has  a  million  ways  to  change  your  lot,  and  change  your 
hatreds  into  love,  your  pains  and  miseries  into  joy  and 
peace." 

"Pray !  hell !"  came  a  gutteral  voice  from  the  crowd. 

"No,  friend;  not  hell,  nor  what  you  mean.  You  may 
not  believe  in  prayer.  You  may  hate  the  name  of  God 
and  hate  the  thought  of  prayer ;  but  there's  never  a  day  you 
do  not  pray.  Never  an  hour  in  your  wakeful  moments  you 


378  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

are  not  sending  out  a  silent,  destinationless  signal  of  desire 
to  be  caught  by  wires  invisible  and  carried  on  to  the  throne 
of  hell  or  heaven.  It  is  for  you  to  choose.  Prayer  from 
the  heart  of  him  who  hates,  who  would  corrupt  and  kill, 
goes  straight  to  hell.  Prayer  sent  in  sympathy,  hope,  faith, 
and  love,  will  reach  the  very  throne  of  God.  Hope,  faith, 
and  prayer !  Evolution,  divine,  in  the  heart  of  man !  Hatred, 
hell,  and  hopelessness,  the  unionized  attributes  of  men  who 
think  they  can  change  their  destinies  by  ballots,  or  by  brutal 
force.  We  are  all  sinners — sinners  till  we  die.  But,  my 
friends,  the  worst  of  sinners  can  become  the  greatest  power 
for  good  and  God,  for  manhood,  womanhood,  and  for  right- 
eous government,  if  he  will  learn  to  pray  and  pray  specifi- 
cally for  the  things  he  knows  are  right,  and  rightfully  his. 
Have  faith  in  God !" 

The  man  stepped  from  the  packing  case  to  mingle  with 
the  crowd,  and  Nancy  went  on  her  way,  his  words  ringing  in 
her  ears:  "The  heart's  desire!"  "The  power  of  prayer!" 
"Have  faith  in  God!" 

A  few  minutes'  walk  brought  her  to  an  intersection  of 
two  noisy  streets. 

No. car  was  in  sight.  A  number  of  persons  were  gath- 
ered about  a  policeman  who  had  arrested  a  woman  and  was 
waiting  for  a  patrol  wagon.  The  poor  thing  was  whining, 
and  begging  the  officer  not  to  take  her  to  the  station. 

Nancy  saw  that  she  was  a  woman  past  middle  age,  with 
emaciated  form,  and  watery  eyes.  Her  hat  had  fallen  to 
one  side,  and  the  loose  strands  of  grayish  hair  were  wet  from 
the  tears  that  spread  over  her  face. 

Nancy  was  so  intently  watching  the  scene  she  did  not 
know  the  car  had  come  and  gone.  The  officer  was  joking 
with  the  men  and  boys,  who  had  gathered  about  him  and 
his  prisoner.  She  heard  the  woman  say  she  was  sick,  that 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE      379 

she  had  gone  for  medicine,  that  she  was  not  drunk — only 
sick.  She  heard  the  jeering  men,  the  taunting  remarks  of 
the  boys.  And  then  she  heard  the  clanging  of  the  patrol 
wagon. 

The  next  moment  she  had  sprung  into  the  crowd  and 
was  pushing  her  way  through  to  the  woman's  side. 

"Oh,  sir,  don't  take  her  to  the  lockup !"  she  cried.  "Let 
me  take  her.  Let  her  go  with  me !" 

The  policeman  grinned. 

"You  don't  know  her,  Miss,"  he  said.  "She's  an  old 
'un.  It's  not  only  a  drunk,  but  it's  disord'ly.  You  don't 
want  nothin'  to  do  with  her,  Miss." 

"Oh,  no,  no.  She's  a  woman.  She's  feeble,  and  old. 
She  can't  hurt  anyone.  Let  her  go,  please.  Oh,  let  me  take 
her."  Nancy  was  tugging  at  the  woman's  arm.  The  patrol 
was  backing  up. 

"Oh,  lady!  Sweet  lady!"  the  woman  whined.  "Don't 
let  them  take  me !  Sweet  lady !  It's  so  cold — and  the  rats 
are  there,  lady !  and  I  can't  pay !  Oh,  lady,  I'll  never  touch 
another  drop;  honest!  Sweet  lady!" 

"What's  the  racket?"  the  sergeant  asked,  leaping  to  the 
ground. 

"A  disord'ly,"  the  patrolman  answered,  saluting. 
"Young  woman,  here,  wants  to  take  her  home." 

The  sergeant  turned  and  looked  at  Nancy.  The  light 
from  the  street  lamp  fell  full  on  her  face. 

"Do  you  know  her,  Miss?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  yes !"  she  cried,  grasping  at  a  new  hope.  "She  is 
my — my  mother,  sir — my  mother!  Now,  will  you  let  her 
come  with  me !" 

The  patrolman,  astonished,  released  his  hold  and  stared 
at  her.  Nancy,  seeing  her  advantage,  began  to  pull  the 
woman  away. 


380  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Come  on  with  me,  mother ;  come  home,"  she  said,  ten- 
derly placing  her  arm  about  the  frail  form.  "Thank  you, 
sir ;  oh,  I  thank  you !" 

The  crowd  fell  back.  The  patrolman  made  a  move  as 
if  to  detain  her;  but  the  sergeant  waved  him  back,  and  the 
blue  wagon  drove  away. 

Nancy  drew  her  charge  along  the  street,  hardly  know- 
ing where  to  go,  but  trying  to  escape  the  crowd.  When  they 
had  reached  the  middle  of  the  block,  the  woman  had  a  fit  of 
coughing  and  Nancy,  wiping  the  wastrel's  face  with  her 
handkerchief,  saw  blood  coming  from  her  lips. 

"Come  in  here,  mother,"  she  said,  drawing  the  other  into 
the  doorway  of  a  building.  The  crowd,  pushed  from  behind 
by  those  wanting  to  see  what  was  going  on,  pressed  them 
hard. 

Inside  Nancy  could  hear  an  organ  playing.  In  the 
lighted  window  was  a  large  card  in  a  frame: 

"I  am  Jehovah  God  that  healeth  thee.     Thou 
shalt  have  no  other  gods  before  me." 

She  knew  it  was  a  church  mission. 

She  opened  the  door  and  pulled  her  charge  inside.  The 
coughing  had  so  taxed  the  woman's  feeble  strength  she 
nearly  fell  to  the  floor.  Supporting  her  as  best  she  could, 
Nancy  looked  about  the  room. 

The  place  was  nearly  full  of  people  and  they  had  just 
risen  to  join  in  the  singing.  A  pleasant-faced  man  came 
forward,  and  taking  the  other  arm  of  the  outcast,  assisted 
them  to  seats  near  the  front.  No  one  seemed  to  pay  un- 
usual attention  to  them,  for  such  scenes  are  not  rare  in  these 
places  where  the  light  of  hope  flashes  up  in  the  midst  of 
despair. 

Nancy's  hand  had  pushed  back  the  woman's  thin  hair, 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE      381 

as  with  the  other  she  pressed  her  fingers,  gently,  with  her 
own;  and  this  wreck  of  womanhood,  this  priest-forsaken, 
man-forsaken,  almost  God-forsaken  being,  nestled  like  a 
tired  child  against  the  heart  of  a  woman  who  seventeen 
years  ago  had  been  an  inmate  in  her  house  of  shame ! 

For,  Nancy  Swallow,  in  pushing  back  the  gray  strands 
from  the  sin-stained  face,  saw  a  scar  she  had  seen,  a  score 
of  times,  when  dressing  Madame  Gorgen's  hair,  a  red  line 
of  a  bullet  which  had  burned  its  seared  mark  through  the 
scalp;  and  there  came  into  her  heart  a  strange  feeling  as  of 
a  cool  draught  to  fevered  lips,  a  sense  of  joy,  deeper  than 
she  had  ever  known. 

"God  be  merciful,  and  bless  us ;  and  guide  our  hearts  and 
spirits  from  darkness  into  light,  from  misery  and  despair 
to  everlasting  joy  and  peace,  through  Christ,  to  thee,  Amen." 

She  heard  the  voice,  and  saw  the  tall,  full-bearded  man, 
whose  hands  reached  out  in  earnest  supplication  for  the 
blessing  of  God  on  the  mission  service.  She  closed  her 
eyes,  for  it  seemed  like  a  dream ;  then  she  opened  them 
wide,  and  stared  at  the  man. 

"Mr.  Raines !"  she  cried,  rising  from  her  seat,  oblivious 
of  all,  save  that,  in  this  moment  of  necessity,  she  had  found 
a  friend. 

The  preacher  was  startled;  but,  in  a  quick  glance,  he 
recognized  her. 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  said,  kindly,  motioning  to  her  to  sit  down. 
"God  bless  you!" 

He  had  taken  in  the  situation  in  that  brief  second,  for 
he  had  seen  her  coming  to  the  front,  leading  the  old  woman, 
like  a  lost  sheep,  into  the  fold. 

"She  is  an  old  friend,  a  dear  friend  of  years  ago,"  he 
told  them;  and  the  audience  not  knowing  nor  caring  if  the 


382  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

friend  were  the  shepherd,  or  the  sheep  that  was  lost,  an- 
swered heartily,  "Amen!" 

Nancy  sat  down.  Into  her  face  had  come  a  beautiful 
light,  a  wonderful  shining. 

At  last  she  understood !    God  was. 

With  her  poor,  withered  face  against  Nancy's  shoulder, 
this  sin- weary,  life- weary,  soul-blighted  being  knew  only 
that  the  God  she  had  forgotten  long  ago  had  not  forgotten 
her;  and  her  tears  of  repentance  fell  over  the  satin  sleeve 
of  her  whom  she  had  once  known  as  little  Nanette. 


CHAPTER  XLV 
THE  GRAY  WOLF 

Hank  Evans  sat  at  his  bench  hammering  on  the  bottom 
of  a  boot.  It  was  hot,  even  for  a  July  day,  and  Hank  told 
Cohen,  the  Jew,  who  had  come  in  for  a  chat,  that  he  had 
"half  a  mind  to  shut  up  shop,  an'  jine  the  picknackers  at 
the  Katchees." 

A  man,  nattily  dressed  in  a  gray  suit,  coming  down  the 
street  from  the  depot,  stopped  before  the  shop,  looked  in  at 
the  shoemaker  in  his  cool,  opened  shirt,  and  entered. 

"Howdy,"  said  Hank,  his  mouth  full  of  pegs. 

The  stranger  pulled  forward  a  chair  and  sat  down  be- 
fore the  open  door,  with  his  back  to  the  stove,  which  stood 
there  winter  and  summer.  He  had  not  noticed  Cohen, 
stretched  out  on  an  old  settee  and  hidden  by  a  pile  of  boxes 
and  strips  of  hanging  leather. 

"Pretty  warm,"  he  said. 

"Jest  come  in  on  the  train?"  Hank  looked  the  other 
over  critically,  and  mentally  calculated  on  the  probable  cost 
of  his  patentleathers. 

The  stranger  nodded,  and  removed  his  hat  to  wipe  the 
perspiration  from  his  brow.  His  hair,  once  black,  was  thick 
and  streaked  with  gray;  his  moustache  was  neatly  groomed 
and,  as  he  smiled,  his  lips  quivered  and  jerked  in  a  peculiar, 
nervous  manner. 


384  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  where  I  can  find  a  man  I  am 
looking  for,"  he  said,  presently. 

"Who  be  he?" 

"His  name  is  Gorin,  Kirby  Gorin,  and  I  have  learned 
he  came  here  about  twenty  years  ago." 

Cohen  started  up  so  suddenly  he  nearly  fell  off  the 
settee. 

"Thar  war  Pat  Gorin,  who  came  here  in  the  sixties,  an' 
who  arterward  sold  his  thousan',  nigh  Old  Town,  to  a  man 
w'at  war  kilt,  mysterious  like,  in  seventy-one,"  said  Hank. 
"Let  me  see;  his  name  war  Kirby,  but  he  war  no  relashun 
to  the  Gorins — leastway,  not  as  nobody  knowd." 

"He  was  killed,  you  say?" 

"Yes;  leastways,  he  died  from  a  stab  o'  some  kind  in 
the  lungs.  It  war  mysterious,  an'  some  ha'  thought  it  war 
murder;  but  thar  war  no  evidence.  Doc  Kimball  war  thar 
w'en  he  died,  likewise  our  parson  named,  Raines,  who  war 
the  preacher  at  Old  Town  them  days." 

"Raines!     Thomas  Raines?" 

"Yas,"  said  Hank;  "know  him?" 

"There's  a  preacher  in  Frisco  from  Australia  that's  stir- 
ring up  things  a  little.  He  is  holding  meetings  at  a  mission 
in  Barbary  Coast,  run  by  a  Thoman  Raines.  Raines  has 
been  in  jail  there  half  a  dozen  times,  because  he's  preaching 
some  kind  of  religion  that's  against  the  law,  or  rather  against 
the  doctors.  He  is  what  you  call  a  'faith  healer.'  " 

"Mebbe  that  be  our  parson,"  said  Hank.  "He  war  a 
man  o'  faith,  and  did  a  heap  more  good  here  than  the  old 
parson  w'at  tuk  his  place.  But  that  war  sixteen  or  seven- 
teen years  ago." 

"Well,  the  fellow's  got  grit.  He  isn't  afraid  of  man  or 
the  devil." 

"No,"  said  Hank,  "ye're  about  right  thar."     He  was 


THE  GRAY  WOLF  385 

thinking  of  the  day  when  three  siwashes  were  roped  to  the 
butcher's  beam. 

On  the  settee  the  Jew  moved,  uneasily. 

"But,  about  the  Gorins,"  said  the  stranger.  "What 
became  of  the  ranch  when  this  man,  Kirby,  was  killed?" 

"It's  thar  yit,  fur's  anybody  knows.  No  one  show'd  up 
to  claim  the  property,  an'  one  day  the  old  house  took  fire 
an'  went  up  in  smoke.  Some  Eastern  fellers  ha'  gobbled  it 
up  lately,  an'  one  o'  them  be  puttin'  up  a  new  house  w'ere 
the  old  'un  stood.  They  dug  out  a  cellar,  an'  dug  up  a 
skeleton  o'  some  dead  person  or  'nother,  so  I  hearn  tell,  right 
under  w'ere  the  kitchen  war.  O'  course  no  one  knows  who 
it  might  ha'  been.  Luke  Waters  sez  how  he  don't  remember 
as  knowin'  fer  sure  that  Pat  Gorin  ever  went  away;  nor  no 
one  else  remembers  now." 

"Perhaps  he  was  murdered  by  Kirby  and  buried  under 
the  house,"  the  other  suggested.  "But  there  were  two  sons." 

"Old  man  had  only  one,  Larry,  an'  he  war  shot  in  Skin- 
ner's saloon  one  night  in  a  fight." 

Didn't  you  ever  hear  of  another  son  Gorin  had  ?" 

"No,  nor  no  one  'round  here;  leastways,  he  never 
showed  up  in  these  parts." 

A  man  died  here  about  a  month  ago,  so  the  depot  agent 
tells  me,  that  no  one  knew.  Do  you  know  anything  about 
it?" 

"I  heard  as  how  a  tramp  tuk  sick  an'  died  in  Tupper's 
livery,  'bout  a  month  ago.  Doc  Kimball  war  tendin'  him, 
an'  afore  he  died  he  give  Jeanie  his  watch.  She  had  been 
takin'  him  grub.  He  war  lame.  Arter  he  died,  they  found 
he  war  fixed  up  with  a  wig  o'  hair,  and  likewise  his  whiskers. 
Only  one  man  here  who  c'ud  identify  him.  He  war  DeLand, 
the  hotel  man,  an'  he  tolt  how  the  feller  war  known  to  Nick 
Maloney,  who's  gone  back  to  the  old  country  fer  his  sister 


386  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

who  war  allus  hesitatin'  to  come  here,  'count  o'  bein'  afeard 
o'  buffylows  an'  Injuns.  'Nick  could  ha'  tolt,'  sez  DeLand. 
DeLand  sez  as  how  Nick  told  him  'bout  same  kind  o'  a  fel- 
ler comin'  on  the  stage  from  The  Dalles,  same  time  Jim 
Crawley  came,  and  Dick  Swallow  an'  his  wife." 

"Dick  Swallow!"  exclaimed  the  other. 

"Yas ;  ye  know  him  ?  He  war  from  the  States.  Nancy 
she  war  from  Frisco,  so  I  heard  tell.  Dick,  po'r  feller,  war 
bit  by  a  rattler  a  year  arterward  an'  died  up  on  the  Ahta- 
num." 

The  other  was  silent  for  a  moment  while  Hank  pro- 
ceeded to  hurry  the  delayed  pegs  into  the  sole  of  the  boot 
between  his  knees. 

"So  Nanette  is  a  widow."  The  man's  lip  twitched. 
"How  does  she  get  along?" 

"She  keeps  boarders  over  there,"  said  Hank  pointing 
with  his  awl  to  the  home  that  could  be  seen  plainly  from 
the  shop  door.  "Then  she  ha'  got  a  ranch  w'at  ha'  proved 
o'  value;  an'  the  girl,  she  ha'  got  a  heap  of  critturs  on  the 
range,  I  heard  tell." 

"The  girl !    Has  she  a  daughter  ?" 

"As  purty  a  girl  as  ye  ever  seen,"  said  Hank.  "She  be 
now  goin'  on  sixteen,  or  seventeen,  an'  a  dead  image  o'  her 
ma,  w'en  Nancy  fust  come." 

"I  used  to  know  her,"  the  other  said,  getting  up.  "Guess 
I'll  go  and  call  on  her." 

"She  ben't  home,  now.  She  went  to  Frisco  a  couple 
days  ago  on  some  affair  o'  nother,  an'  she  don't  look  to 
come  back  fer  a  week  or  more,  the  old  parson  sez." 

"And  the  daughter,  did  she  go  with  her  mother  ?" 

"No,  Maidie  is  up  at  the  Katchees,  picknacking  with  a 
crowd  o'  young  people.  She'll  be  thar  till  her  ma  comes 
home  most  likely."  Hank  hastened  to  give  this  information 


THE  GRAY  WOLF  387 

for,  somehow,  he  was  becoming  suspicious  of  the  man  from 
Frisco.  He  was  glad  the  Swallows  were  not  at  home. 

The  stranger  sat  down  again  and  for  some  time  he  lis- 
tened with  half  closed  eyes  to  the  sound  of  the  shoemaker's 
hammer  on  the  pegs. 

"Who  be  ye,  stranger?"  Hank  asked,  presently,  after 
several  furtive  glances  from  the  boot  to  the  dark  face. 

The  man  started  and  then  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Who  be  ye  ?"  Hank  repeated  in  a  louder  tone. 

"I'm  a  detective,"  he  answered,  giving  the  shoemaker 
a  quick,  keen  look.  "I've  been  sent  here  to  trace  the  Gorin 
family.  The  man  who  died  at  the  livery  stable  was  not  a 
tramp.  He  was  a  son  of  Pat  Gorin,  a  twin  brother  of  Larry 
Gorin,  and  the  rightful  heir  to  the  thousand  acres  those  East- 
ern fellows  have  gobbled  up.  He  deeded  the  ranch  to  a  man 
named  Osmond,  John  Osmond,  in  San  Francisco,  before  he 
came  north,  a  month  or  six  weeks  ago." 

He  threw  a  silver  dollar  in  the  shoemaker's  tool  box 
and  went  out. 

Cohen  rose,  stretched  himself  and  came  forward. 

"Heard  that  feller  talk,  I  s'pose?"  Hank  asked,  as  he 
tossed  the  man's  money  into  the  street.  "What  d'ye  think 
o'  him?" 

"He  is  right  about  one  thing,"  said  the  Jew  .  "Gorin 
had  two  sons ;  but  he  also  had  a  daughter  who  went  on  the 
stage.  Afterward  she  married  a  man  in  California,  some- 
where, and  died ;  but  there  was  a  little  girl.  I've  been  trying 
for  a  year  to  locate  that  girl,  or  rather,  the  woman ;  for  she 
must  be  more  than  thirty  years  old,  now." 

"Ye  don't  say!"  Hank  exclaimed.    "Beats  all!" 

Cohen  stepped  to  the  door  and  looked  up  the  street. 

The  stranger  was  talking  to  the  drug-clerk  outside  of 
the  drugstore.  He  was  asking  the  way  to  Lake  Katchees. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 
THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB 

Archibald  and  Maidie  had  quarreled.  It  was  only  the 
third  day  of  their  camping,  and  they  had  taken  the  small 
boat,  and  a  book,  which  he  was  to  read  to  her,  and  had 
rowed  across  the  lake,  to  where  the  wagon  road  from  the 
station  turned  its  crooked  way  to  the  far  side  of  the  Kat- 
chees. 

A  warm  attachment  had  Sprung  up  between  them ;  their 
confidences  became  sweeter  with  the  clandestine  touch  of  lips, 
and  a  tender  pressure  of  hands.  Young  though  they  were, 
they  had  sworn,  as  others  do,  to  love  one  another  through 
time  and  eternity. 

So  this  quarrel  was  just  a  lovers'  tiff.  Maidie  had 
taken  up  the  book,  and  fixed  her  eyes  hard  upon  the  pages, 
not  reading  a  word,  and  Archie  had  gone  off  into  the  woods, 
whistling  loudly,  that  she  might  see  how  little  he  cared, 
caring  all  the  while. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  an  impulse  came  to  her  to 
run  along  the  bank  a  distance  so  that  when  he  returned,  as 
she  knew  he  would,  he  would  find  her  gone  and  would  have 
to  search  for  her. 

She  came  to  a  pretty  spot,  where  a  tree  had  fallen, 
years  before,  blown  down  by  the  wind,  and,  like  a  large  rug 
inviting  her,  the  green  moss  spread  out  before  the  log  slop- 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB      389 

ingly  toward  the  water.  She  sat  down  here  and  waited, 
wondering  if  it  would  be  long  and  hoping  it  would  not. 

Presently,  she  heard  a  step  in  the  leafy  loam  and,  think- 
ing it  was  he  and  ready  to  forgive,  she  held  her  face  close  to 
the  book,  pretending  to  be  deeply  interested. 

The  footsteps  came  nearer.  Curious  because  he  did 
not  speak,  she  glanced  stealthily  from  the  page.  A  man 
stood  before  her  with  bared  head,  smiling,  his  even,  white 
teeth  showing  between  his  twitching  lips. 

She  let  the  book  fall  to  the  ground.  The  red  color  came 
into  her  cheeks  and  full  lips  from  the  quick  palpitations  of 
her  heart,  and  the  practised  eye  of  the  man  read  in  her  face 
the  admiration  and  fascination  he  so  well  knew  had  always 
been  aroused  by  his  personal  magnetism. 

Larrabie  Harding  stood  smiling  before  Nancy  Swal- 
low's daughter  just  as  he  had  stood  before  little  Nanette  at 
the  convent  stables,  and  read  in  her  excited  eyes,  in  her  re- 
solute mouth  and  flushed  cheeks,  that  she  was  about  to  run 
away. 

"You  are  a  picture  of  your  mother,  Maidie,"  he  said  in 
an  easy  manner  that  made  the  girl  at  once  think  he  must 
be  some  old  friend. 

"You  know  mamma,  sir?"  she  asked,  making  room  for 
him  beside  her  on  the  log. 

"For  nearly  twenty  years,"  he  answered,  throwing  him- 
self down  on  the  moss  bed  at  her  feet.  "I  met  her  in  San 
Francisco  just  as  I  was  about  to  take  the  train  for  New 
Town  to  visit  you;  and  she  told  me  I  would  find  you  here 
in  the  mountains." 

The  man  lied  as  easily  and  as  naturally  as  he  smiled 
and,  at  the  same  time,  with  such  a  straight  glance  into  her 
eyes,  she  never  doubted  him.  Yet,  within  her  was  a  restless 
something — a  something  that  was  whispering  to  her,  warn- 


390  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

ing  her;  but  she  did  not  understand.  She  could  only  look, 
fascinated,  into  his  dark,  handsome  face. 

"You  met  mamma  in  the  depot  at  San  Francisco?"  she 
asked,  trying  to  break  the  spell.  "How  fortunate !  And  did 
she  recognize  you?" 

"I  knew  her  at  once.  She  seems  to  have  grown  no 
older  in  twenty  years."  He  watched  her  closely,  for  he 
was  feeling  his  way. 

"Yes,"  said  Maidie,  "people — friends  of  ours  in  New 
Town,  often  say  we  look  like  sisters." 

"She  is  a  pretty  woman,  but  not  prettier  than  her 
daughter,"  he  said,  and  smiled  as  he  saw  the  color  deepen 
in  her  cheeks.  "I  hope  she  will  be  back  earlier  than  she 
thought."  He  was  feeling  his  way  again. 

"If  she  finds  Uncle  Burke — that  is,  if  she  is  successful 
in  what  she  has  gone  for — "  and  then  she  remembered  she 
was  not  to  tell  any  one. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "she  told  me." 

"About  Uncle  Burke?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  been  a  long  time,"  he  said,  wondering  if  it  had. 

"Yes,  ever  since  I  was  a  baby.  We  thought  he  was  dead 
until  a  month  ago,  a  friend  of  mamma's,  Mr.  Payne,  who 
was  here,  saw  a  photograph  of  Uncle  Burke  in  the  album, 
and  recognized  him." 

"And  Payne  told  her  where  he  was,"  said  the  man, 
hoping  no  one  would  interrupt  them. 

"She  got  a  letter  from  Mr.  Payne  the  day  before  she 
went." 

"You  should  have  gone  with  her,  Maidie." 

"Why?"  she  asked,  opening  her  eyes  wide. 

"Because  San  Francisco  is  a  large  place,  and — and — 
it  will  be  lonely  for  her  there."  He  was  near  not  knowing 
why,  himself.  "She  told  me  she  wished  she  had  brought 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB  391 

you,"  he  added.  "But  tell  me  about  your  camp,  and  who 
you  have  with  you  here,  and  why  you  are  out  here  all  by 
yourself."  He  took  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket  and  put 
it  under  his  elbow  to  keep  the  moss  stain  from  the  light 
cloth. 

She  told  about  Archie  and  their  quarrel,  about  New 
Town  and  the  people,  and  about  her  plans ;  all  the  time  she 
felt  her  inner  self  urging  her  to  go — to  get  away.  She  felt 
the  blood  coursing  hot  through  her  body.  The  warmth  of 
her  veins  made  her  head  burn.  There  was  a  sensation,  with- 
in, that  she  had  never  felt,  before ;  and  the  muscles  round  her 
heart  drew  tight. 

"Maidie!"  a  voice  called,  somewhere  off  among  the 
trees. 

She  sprang  up.  For  a  moment  she  gasped  for  breath, 
as  though  someone  had  dashed  cold  water  over  her. 

"Must  you  go  now?"  he  asked,  slowly  getting  to  his 
feet. 

"Maidie !"  came  the  voice  again ;  but  she  did  not  answer. 
She  only  stood  there  with  a  fearful,  startled  look. 

"Go,"  he  said,  in  a  calm  tone,  which  seemed  to  quiet 
her. 

"Aren't  you  coming,  too  ?  Weren't  you  going  to  camp  ?" 
she  asked,  hurriedly,  hoping  he  would. 

"Not  today,  Maidie.  I'll  come  over  tomorrow  prepared 
to  stay  a  day  or  two.  Au  revoir,  ma  petite."  He  went 
away  just  as  Archie  pushed  through  the  tangled  vines  and 
saw  her  standing,  pale  and  trembling,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the 
spot  where  the  man  had  disappeared. 

"What  is  it,  Maidie!"  he  asked,  looking  the  direction 
her  eyes  were  turned. 

She  started,  guiltily,  and  from  very  weakness  fell  back 
on  the  log. 


392  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"What  is  it,  Maidie?"  he  asked,  again.  "You're  white 
as  a  sheet,  dearie.  Why  do  you  tremble  so?" 

"Nothing,  Archie — it's  nothing;  only  I — was  frightened 
— for  a  moment.  Oh,  Archie,  I  am  so  glad  you  are  here! 
I'm  so  sorry  we  quarreled.  Oh,  Archie,  forgive  me!  for- 
give me,  won't  you,  dear?" 

Her  arms  went  around  his  neck  impulsively  and  she 
pulled  his  face  down  to  hers. 

"Yes,  yes,  dearie.  It  was  nothing — all  my  fault.  We 
will  never  quarrel  again,  never,  will  we,  Maidie?" 

His  kiss  brought  the  red  blood  into  her  lips  again.  "It's 
all  forgiven  and  forgotten  now,"  he  said. 

In  a  moment  she  was  herself. 

"What  frightened  you,  dear?"  he  asked. 

Something  whispered  to  her  innner  consciousness ;  some- 
thing moved  her  lips  and  her  tongue. 

"Nothing — no  one !"  she  cried  out,  painfully ;  and  it 
seemed  to  her  that  someone  else  had  answered. 

"Maidie !"  he  said,  holding  her  away  from  him.  "Dear- 
est! What  is  it?  Who  has  been  here?"  His  eyes  fell  on 
the  newspaper,  lying  in  the  moss.  He  picked  it  up. 

"San  Francisco  Call,"  he  read,  glancing  at  the  head- 
line. "Where  did  this  come  from?  Who  left  it?" 

"Oh,  Archie,  Archie,  I  don't  know!  Take  me  back, — 
back  to  camp!  I — I  don't  feel  well."  The  next  moment 
she  had  fainted. 

He  jerked  off  his  coat  and  put  it  under  her  head.  Then 
he  ran  down  to  the  water's  edge,  dipped  his  cap  in,  and 
hastened  back  to  her  side. 

The  water  revived  her,  and  for  a  few  moments  he 
knelt  there  with  his  arm  under  the  beautiful  head.  When 
she  was  able  to  walk,  they  went  to  the  boat,  and  he  rowed 
silently  back  to  camp. 

She  seemed  so  much  better  when  they  arrived  at  the 


THE  WOLF  AND  THE  LAMB  393 

tents,  that  she  got  his  promise  not  to  mention  the  incident  to 
Mrs.  Kimball,  fearing  it  would  cause  unnecessary  anxiety. 

But,  oh,  how  her  head  burned ! 

At  the  same  moment,  a  dark  man  in  a  gray  suit  and 
flashy  silk  shirt,  leaned  over  the  counter,  in  the  Ellensburg 
Station,  and  handed  the  agent  a  message  to  be  wired  imme- 
diately. It  read : 

John  Osmond,  Parker  House  San  Francisco. 

Content     head     maidie     swallow    sending    station 

orange  marble  foot  nancy  swallow  hard 


CHAPTER  XLVII 
THE  MIRACLE  MAN. 

"What's  that  in  your  pocket,  Arch?"  asked  Arthur,  as 
they  were  dressing,  the  following  morning. 

Archie  tossed  him  the  newspaper. 

"Found  it  in  the  woods  last  night.  Haven't  read  it,  but 
I'm  going  to  help  the  girls  get  breakfast." 

Arthur  tumbled  back  into  his  bunk  and  began  reading 
the  headings.  Newspapers  were  rare  in  the  mountain  camp. 

Presently,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  a  column,  with  sensa- 
tional headlines: 

CLAIMS   MIRACULOUS    POWER   THROUGH 
PRAYER 

Preacher     in     Barbary     Coast     Lays     Hands     on 

Sick  for  Healing 

Great  Crowds  Flocking  to  Mission. 

The  Blind  See,  the  Lame  Walk,  and  the  Ears  of 

Deaf  are  Unstopped 

With  quickening  heart  he  read  on,  about  a  preacher, 
from  Australia,  who  had  opened  a  Mission  in  that  part  of 
San  Francisco  known  as  "Hell  Garden,"  where  he  was 
preaching  a  new  and,  therefore,  unheard  of  doctrine  called, 
"Divine  Healing."  People  with  every  sort  of  affliction  were 
coming  from  all  points  of  the  compass  to  have  him  pray 


THE  MIRACLE  MAN  395 

with  them.  Hundreds  claimed  to  be  healed,  and,  in  fact, 
many  who  came  on  crutches  walked  away,  leaving  their 
crutches  at  the  altar.  The  newspaper,  fearing  to  be  thought 
over  credulous,  disclaimed  any  personal  knowledge  of  these 
things,  and  intimated  that  these  supposedly  lame  persons 
might  be  fakes,  employed  to  bring  publicity  to  a  charlatan. 
The  City  Hall  had,  the  night  before,  hurriedly  passed  an 
ordinance  declaring  the  Mission  to'  be  a  hospital  and  operat- 
ing without  a  license.  The  police  were  already  on  the  way, 
probably,  to  arrest  the  preacher.  They  would  compel  him 
to  reveal  the  method  by  which  he  was  getting  so  much 
notoriety,  or  force  him  to  close  his  Mission. 

Nothing  in  the  article  told  how  much  or  if  any  fee  at 
all  was  charged  for  bringing  about  a  cure;  but,  surely, 
thought  Arthur,  as  he  read  to  the  bottom  of  the  column,  if 
he  told  him  how  long  his  mother  had  been  blind,  and  that 
they  had  nothing  in  the  world  except  what  Aunty  Nan  gave 
them,  he  wouldn't  send  them  away. 

He  sprang  from  the  bed,  dressed  himself  quickly,  and 
hurried  to  his  mother's  tent.  She  was  sitting  in  a  chair, 
outside,  and  was  making  ready  some  potatoes  for  breakfast. 

"Mother,  dear,  listen  to  what  I  found  in  this  San  Fran- 
cisco paper!"  he  cried.  A  preacher,  there,  is  praying  for 
blind  people,  and  they  get  their  sight." 

"Read  it  to  me,  Arthur.  It  can't  be  true,  but  read  it, 
anyway,"  she  said,  disinterestedly,  unable  to  see  the  great 
hope  that  had  come  into  his  eyes. 

At  this  moment,  Bessie  came  for  the  potatoes. 

"Listen,  Bess!  I  want  you  to  hear  this,"  he  urged, 
motioning  her  to  a  seat  on  an  arm  of  his  mother's  chair.  He 
read  the  article  to  the  close. 

"That's  what  this  new  preacher  in  New  Town  is  trying 
to  get  the  people  to  believe,  but  he's  a  fake,  Grandpa  Swallow 


396  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

says.  He  just  gets  these  poor  sick  people  there  to  get  what 
money  he  can  from  them,  grandpa  says." 

"But,  Bess,  if  they  get  their  sight,  or  can  walk,  after 
being  lame  for  years — maybe  all  their  life,  like  Perry  Heath 
is,  wouldn't  they  be  glad  to  give  him  all  they  have?  I 
would — only  I  haven't  much  to  give." 

"Were  you  thinking  of  having  me  go  there,  dear?"  his 
mother  asked. 

"I — I  thought — I  wondered  if  it  might  be  true.  Oh, 
mother,  sweetheart!  What  wouldn't  I  give  to  have  you  see 
again!"  Tears  came  to  his  eyes  as  he  rose  and  went  to  the 
other  arm  of  her  chair. 

"I  might  sell  Gipsy,"  he  said.  "I  could  get  along  with- 
out a  pony.  Uncle  Billy  would  buy  her.  Or  I  might  sell 
Mr.  Crawley  my  two  yearlings.  That  would  pay  the  cost 
of  going,"  he  said,  musingly. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,  Arthur,"  said  Bess,  "I  have  two  hun- 
dred dollars,  in  the  savings  bank,  you  can  have.  You  can 
pay  me  back  whenever  you  can.  I  don't  need  it." 

"No,"  said  Arthur.  "I'll  sell  Gipsy,  and  the  two  year- 
lings. I  would  always  want  to  feel  I  had  done  it, — if — if — " 

"Yes,  dear,  I  know  what  you  mean,"  said  his  mother, 
patting  his  hand.  "And  I  should  want  to  feel  that  way,  too.' 

So,  after  half  an  hour's  planning,  it  was  decided  that 
Arthur  and  his  mother  would  take  the  trip  to  San  Francisco 
within  the  coming  week. 

"Let's  go  tell  Maidie,"  said  Bess. 

They  found  her  still  sleeping.  Not  wishing  to  disturb 
her,  they  got  some  pails  and  went  through  the  woods,  look- 
ing for  berries. 

When  they  returned  to  camp  Maidie  complained  of  a 
severe  headache  and  decided  to  stay  in  bed. 

Arthur  sat  down  by  her  cot  and  read  to  her  the  remark- 


THE  MIRACLE  MAN  397 

able  story  in  the  San  Francisco  Call.  He  was  so  full  of 
hope  and  enthusiasm,  that  she  caught  the  spirit  of  his  mood 
and  began  to  plan,  with  him. 

After  breakfast,  a  messenger  arrived  from  the  railroad 
station  with  a  telegram  for  Maidie. 

She  opened  it  and  read : 

"San  Francisco,  July  — ,  1888. 
"Maidie  Swallow,  Easton  Station,  Washington. 
"Come  at  once,  first  train,  without  fail. 

"Nancy  Swallow." 

In  a  moment  she  was  up  and  dressing,  headache  for- 
gotten, only  one  thought — her  mother  needed  her. 

She  could  tell  no  one  anything,  not  even  Arthur,  except 
that  she  must  start  for  San  Francisco,  on  the  train  that 
would  leave  New  Town  the  next  day.  There  would  be  just 
time  to  get  the  local,  by  returning  with  the  messenger  who 
had  brought  over  the  telegram. 

A  few  days  later,  as  the  train  from  the  North  drew  in 
alongside  the  ferryboat,  at  Oakland  Mole,  Maidie  was  as- 
sisted from  her  berth,  and  placed  aboard  the  boat. 

"She  has  been  ill  the  whole  trip,"  the  train  porter  told 
the  attendant.  "Friends  are  to  meet  her  at  the  pier."  Pres- 
ently, the  boat  was  steaming  across  the  bay. 

They  were  about  halfway  over  when  a  well-dressed  man 
approached  the  girl,  who  had  been  made  as  comfortable  as 
possible  in  an  invalid's  chair. 

"Are  you  Miss  Swallow  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Maidie,  her  face  brightening.  "Are 
you  from  mamma?" 

He  told  her  he  was. 

"She  is  ill,"  he  said ;  for  he  had  a  letter  in  his  pocket, 


398  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

instructing  him.  Then,  fearing  his  words  might  upset  her, 
he  added; 

"But  she  is  nearly  well  again." 

"Poor  mamma!" 

Her  head  fell  back,  again,  on  the  cushion. 

"I've  been  so  sick,"  she  sighed.  "I'm  so  dizzy;  I  feared 
I  would  never  get  here.  I  had  never  been  sick  in  my  life." 

"Let  me  get  a  doctor,"  he  said,  rising  quickly.  "There's 
always  one  on  the  boat." 

"No,  no;  please  don't!"  she  cried,  putting  out  her  hand 
to  detain  him. 

He  sat  down  again  and  looked  at  her,  as  she  lay  back 
in  the  chair,  her  eyes  closed  and  the  fever  hot  in  her  cheeks. 

"She's  a  beautiful  child !"  he  said,  to  himself. 

"Are  we  almost  across?"  she  asked,  faintly. 

He  didn't  hear. 

"What  is  your  father's  name  ?  he  asked,  leaning  forward 
and  speaking  in  a  low  voice. 

"He  is  dead,  sir,"  she  answered,  feebly,  half  opening 
her  eyes.  "His  name  was  Richard  Swallow." 

He  pushed  back  in  his  chair,  and  looked  off  over  the 
water.  "I  thought  so!  So  he  is  dead!  ....  It's  a 
damnable  thing!  ....  But  then,  it  has  to  be  some- 
body's girl  ....  Why  not  his?  ....  And 
there's  a  thousand  in  it." 

He  turned  to  the  girl  again.  His  eyes  changed  their 
expression  just  a  little,  as  they  rested  for  a  moment  on  the 
sweet  face,  and  he  read,  there,  the  hope  and  the  helpless- 
ness of  innocent  girlhood.  Then  his  glance  went  to  the 
shore,  that  was  drawing  nearer. 

"It's  a  damnable  thing!"  he  said  again,  half  aloud. 

She  raised  her  fever-red  eyes  to  his  face. 


THE  MIRACLE  MAN  399 

"Oh,  I  am  so  ill,"  she  said,  wearily.  "Will  you  take  me 
to  mamma,  at  once,  sir?  Are  we  most  there?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  letting  the  word  answer  both  her  ques- 
tions. 

When  they  were  off  the  ferry,  he  motioned  a  carriage 
to  drive  up  close.  He  lifted  her  in. 

"To  the  Weatherbee  House,"  he  said,  to  the  driver. 

"Is  mamma  there?"  she  asked,  too  ill,  now,  to  know 
what  she  was  saying.  The  man  looked  into  her  face,  but 
did  not  answer. 

In  a  few  moments  the  carriage  stopped.  He  helped  her 
through  the  door  into  the  hall  entrance. 

"It's  upstairs;  I'll  help  you,"  he  said.  She  let  him 
take  her  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  up  the  stairs,  into  a 
small  room. 

"Is  mamma  here?"  she  asked,  more  wearily. 

"Take  off  your  clothes  and  get  into  bed;  I'll  go  for  a 
doctor."  He  went  out  and  shut  the  door.  The  key  turned 
in  the  lock,  outside. 

She  commenced  to  undress,  not  hearing  what  he  said; 
for  the  sight  of  the  bed  told  her  of  something  she  wanted 
more  than  all  else;  rest,  sweet,  sweet,  rest. 

At  the  same  moment  the  porter  of  the  saloon,  down- 
stairs, picked  up  a  bit  of  crumpled  yellow  paper,  that  had 
dropped  from  the  sick  girl's  hand. 

It  was  the  telegram  that  had  brought  her  to  San 
Francisco. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII 
THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL. 

Nancy  Swallow  had  almost  despaired  of  finding  Burke. 
He  had  left  the  place  to  which  Payne  had  directed  her ;  and, 
day  after  day,  she  had  searched  through  the  districts  where, 
she  learned,  such  as  he  had  become,  make  their  lairs.  Her 
only  clue  was  that  he  was  familiarly  known  as  "Burke." 

A  week  had  gone,  and  not  a  word  from  home.  The 
day  following  her  arrival  she  had  written  Maidie,  giving  her 
hotel  address.  She  could  imagine  no  harm,  no  reason  why 
she  should  have  a  fear  that  all  was  not  well.  Only,  there 
was  a  strange  feeling  within  her,  just  like  the  day  Dick  died. 
She  was  so  lonely,  so  forgotten;  and  there  was  just  a  little 
pain  with  the  thought  that  Maidie  should  have  considered 
this. 

In  subsequent  letters  she  had  told  Maidie  of  the  awful- 
ness  of  city  life;  the  terrible  crimes  to  which  the  newsboys 
called  attention,  at  the  top  of  their. voice,  night  and  day; 
the  poverty,  the  wretchedness  of  it  all — every  day,  someone 
in  the  clutches  of  the  law. 

A  note  had  come  to  Nancy  from  Raines,  telling  of  the 
death  of  "Madame  Gorgen,"  the  day  following  the  night 
she  placed  her  in  the  care  of  the  Mission.  She  had  first 
thought  of  asking  Mr.  Raines  to  aid  her  in  the  search  for 
Burke;  but  each  day  she  had  felt  so  close  to  finding  him, 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  401 

that  she  put  it  off,  unwilling  to  let  even  the  minister  know 
how  dissolute  he  had  become. 

Finally,  one  morning  she  met  a  man  who  had  been  one 
of  Burke's  associates.  She  was  sure,  now,  that  her  efforts 
were  to  be  rewarded.  He  had  given  her  the  address  of  a 
saloon,  only  a  few  blocks  away,  where,  he  said,  Burke  was 
employed  as  porter.  With  the  slip  of  paper  tight  in  her 
hand,  she  reached  the  street  and  turned  the  corner.  Just 
ahead  of  her,  she  saw  a  crowd  gathering  in  front  of  a  build- 
ing, that  appeared  to  be  a  cheap  hotel.  Men  were  running, 
from  every  direction,  to  the  scene.  Two  or  three  policemen 
had  come  up,  and  were  trying  to  keep  the  crowd  from  enter- 
ing the  place.  Then  she  heard  someone  say,  a  man  inside 
had  been  shot. 

"Makes  two,  this  week,"  commented  another. 

Nancy  looked  up  to  the  sign  over  the  door,  and  her 
heart  suddenly  stopped  beating :  "Patrick  Weatherbee,  Pro- 
prietor." And  under  the  name  was  the  street  number,  the 
very  number  written  on  the  slip  of  paper  in  her  hand. 

"Pass  along,  lady,"  commanded  one  of  the  policemen. 

"No,  no !"  she  gasped,  clutching  at  his  arm. 

"It's  no  place  for  you,  lady ;  pass  along,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"No,  no !"  she  said,  again,  staring  past  the  officer  into 
the  saloon,  where  she  could  see  a  man's  form  lying  on  the 
floor.  Someone  was  bending  over  him. 

"Let  me  go  in!"  she  cried,  trying  to  push  aside  the 
bluecoat. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  asked,  barring  the  way. 

"Let  me  go  in!  Oh,  let  me  in!"  she  cried,  again,  in 
desperation.  A  thought  had  come  that,  after  all,  she  was 
too  late. 

The  officer  permitted  her  to  enter. 

On  the  floor,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  a  man  was 


402  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

lying,  just  as  he  had  fallen.    A  doctor  knelt  beside  him,  his 
hand  on  the  man's  wrist. 

Nancy  gave  a  sudden,  sharp  cry,  as  she  looked  into  the 
dark  face,  over  which  a  tiny  stream  of  blood  was  creeping. 

"Larrabie!  Larrabie!"  she  cried,  and  fell  on  her  knees 
by  his  side. 

She  had  only  one  thought,  now.  He  was  dying.  It  was 
different,  now.  He  was  there  alone,  no  friends,  and  dying. 

She  pushed  back  his  hair,  and  wiped  away  the  blood 
with  her  small,  lace  handkerchief. 

"Larrabie!"  she  whispered. 

He  opened  his  eyes. 

"Larrabie!"  she  whispered  again,  putting  her  face  close 
to  his. 

The  lip  quivered,  and  he  tried  to  smile.  He  seemed  to 
recognize  her. 

"He  is  dying,"  the  doctor  told  her. 

"Oh,  Larrabie!  Look  up!  Do  you  know  me?  You 
are  dying,  he  says.  Larrabie !  Oh,  Larrabie !  can  you  pray  ? 
Look  at  me !  Ask  God  to  forgive  you — as  I  do — as  I  do ! 
Larrabie !  Listen !  I  will  pray.  O  God !  O  God !  Forgive 
him!  Oh,  forgive!" 

It  was  her  first  prayer. 

The  lip  ceased  quivering. 

"He  is  dead,"  the  doctor  said. 

For  a  few  moments  she  knelt  there,  staring  into  the 
cold,  set  face.  Then  she  heard  the  heavy  tramp  of  feet  on 
the  stairs.  Raising  her  head,  she  saw  two  policemen  step 
into  the  room,  through  a  rear  door.  Between  them,  his 
hands  manacled,  his  face  hard  and  defiant,  was  an  old  man. 

Nancy  sprang  to  her  feet. 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  403 

"Daddy!  Oh,  daddy!  What  have  you  done?"  The 
next  moment  she  was  lying  on  the  old  man's  breast,  her  arm 
about  his  neck. 

Pat  stared  at  his  daughter,  too  surprised  to  say  a  word. 

"Come  now,  that'll  do;  that'll  do,"  said  one  of  the 
officers,  gently  removing  her  arms.  You  can  see  him  at  tht 
police  station,  tomorrow."  They  led  him  away. 

All  this  time  there  had  been  a  silent  watcher  of  the 
scene.  Leaning  against  the  bar  was  a  man  we  have  not 
heard  from  for  years.  He  stepped  forward. 

"I  suppose  you  know  me,  too,  Nancy,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  and  in  spite  of  his  unkempt 
appearance,  his  dirty  face,  and  the  odor  of  whiskey  and 
tobacco,  she  kissed  him. 

"Burke,"  she  said,  "I  have  come  to  take  you  home." 

He  shook  his  head,  and  looked  shamefacedly  at  the 
floor. 

"It's  all  right,  Burke;  it's  always  been  all  right.  Dick 
paid  the  note,  and  Billy  never  knew.  They're  waiting  for 
you  there.  We've  been  waiting,  for  years,  for  you  to  come 
home.  Now,  you  must  come  with  me." 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  Miss,  he  must  be  goin'  with  us, 
first — at  least  for  a  toime."  One  of  the  officers  had  come 
back,  and  had  been  quietly  listening  to  their  conversation. 
He  stepped  forward,  and  put  Burke  under  arrest. 

"Why  him?"  she  asked. 

"Witness,  Miss,  an'  no  fear.  He'll  be  out  shortly,  an' 
he'll  be  safe  till  then;  an'  we'll  keep  him  till  ye  want  him, 
Miss." 

Nancy  took  down  the  address  they  gave  her  and  went 
slowly  away,  followed  by  the  curious  eyes  of  the  crowd. 

"Who  is  the  loidy?"  a  man  asked,  running  up  all  out 
of  breath.  He  had  a  reporter's  badge  on  the  lapel  of  his  vest. 


404  '  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Old  Pat's  daughter,"  someone  told  him. 

"An'  some  relashun  to  the  new  porter  they  took  along," 
volunteered  another.  "She  called  'im  'Burke/  an'  said  as 
'ow  she'd  be  at  de  perleese  court  tomorry." 

"What  was  the  row ?    Fight?" 

"Naw!"  said  the  bum,  in  a  tone  of  disgust.  "Feller, 
w'at  were  kilt,  is  a  high  gun,  as  ha'  been  doin'  a  rummy  busi- 
ness in  dope,  fer  years.  'Side  from  that,  if  the  truth  is  to 
be  tolt,  he's  been  close  to  the  city  gov'ment.  I've  'card  as 
'ow  Judge  Osmond's  son  is  a  pal  o'  this  guy,  an'  the  two  ha' 
been  supplyin'  loidies  fer  some  o'  the  City  Hall  fellers."  The 
fellow  grinned  as  the  reporter  wrote,  rapidly,  on  his  tablet. 

"Old  Pat'll  git  off  all  right,  I'm  thinkin',"  said  another. 
"He's  worth  a  lot  to  the  administration,  an'  knows  all  the 
fellers  at  the  City  Hall." 

"What  caused  the  shooting?"  asked  the  reporter,  of  the 
man  who  seemed  to  know  most  about  the  affair. 

"Wall,  as  fur's  I  ha'  learned,"  answered  the  rounder, 
"Osmond  ha'  brought  a  little  peach  o'  a  thing  'ere  a  few 
days  back,  an'  Pat  wus  to  keep  'er  till  the  dark  guy  got  a 
right  bid.  Next  day  a  man  druv  up  wid  a  keeridge  an'  a 
woman  in  it,  an'  ha'  took  the  girl  off.  Someone  had  squealed 
to  the  Mission  people.  This  guy  show'd  up  this  mornin'  an' 
raised  a  row  wid  Pat  'cause  the  girl  wus  gone.  Next  anny- 
body  knowd  there  wus  a  shot,  an'  the  dark  guy  dropped." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  reporter.  He  jumped  into  a  cab 
that  had  pulled  up,  looking  for  a  fare,  and  was  whirled  off 
to  the  police  station. 

That  evening,  Nancy  heard  the  newsboys  shouting,  "All 
about  the  murder  of  Larrabie  Harding!"  "Larrabie  Hard- 
ing killed!" 

She  bought  a  paper,  and  across  the  front  page,  in  glaring 
headlines,  she  read : 


THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL  405 

PAT  WEATHERBEE  IN  THE  TOILS 


Shot  and   Killed   Larrabie   Harding,  Chief   of  Opium 

Smugglers — Had    Been    a    Standing    Reward    for 

Harding'*  Capture — Government  Officials  Said 

to  Have  Been  Protecting  Him. 


WILL  PAT  GET  THE  REWARD  OR  THE  ROPE? 


Daughter  of  the  Prisoner  Appears   on   the  Scene  as 
Man  Is  Taken  to  Jail. 


Mysterious  connection  of  a  young  and  beautiful 
girl  with  the  tragedy.  Son  of  a  prominent  citizen 
mentioned  as  procurer  for  dive  keepers.  Girl  had 
been  held  a  prisoner  in  the  Weatherbee  Hotel,  but 
was  taken  away  in  a  carriage  by  unknown  party. 
Only  witness  to  the  shooting  was  the  saloon  porter, 
a  dissolute  character,  to  whom  it  is  said  the  victim 
was  well  known.  He  will  tell  nothing.  Arraignment 
tomorrow  at  the  City  Court. 

Nancy  read  on  through  the  story  as  it  had  been  printed, 
shuddering  at  the  details  which  so  vividly  brought  back  the 
scene.  She  was  thankful  no  mention  was  made  of  her  recog- 
nition of  Harding,  and  that  Burke's  name  had  been  left  out. 
But  she  felt  thankful,  more  than  all,  that  her  own  darling 
Maidie  was  hundred  of  miles  away  from  such  scenes  of 
crime  and  infamy. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 
"THE  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS" 

The  next  morning  Nancy  was  at  the  City  Court  long 
before  the  business  of  the  day  began.  The  sergeant  lis- 
tened with  kindly  sympathy  as  she  told  him  of  her  interest 
in  the  tragedy  of  the  day  before,  and  showed  him  the  ac- 
count printed  in  the  evening  papers. 

He  gave  her  the  morning  papers  to  read.  It  had  all 
come  out  again,  and  more  details  were  given.  Among  other 
things,  the  later  report  gave  Burke  Channing's  name,  told 
something  of  the  life  of  Pat  Weatherbee. 

Pat  had  been  married  twice,  according  to  the  story, 
his  first  wife  being  a  daughter  of  Patrick  Gorin,  formerly 
a  San  Francisco  saloonkeeper  and  politician,  and  owner  of 
considerable  properly  lying  west  of  Larkin  street,  the  title 
to  which  had  been  in  dispute  for  years.  Gorin  had  left 
San  Francisco  in  the  '60's,  since  which  time  the  property  had 
become  valuable,  and  the  title  cleared,  but  all  trace  of  Gorin 
was  lost. 

About  this  time,  Pat  Weatherbee  had  appeared  in  San 
Francisco  with  a  second  wife  and,  as  he  seemed  to  be  the 
only  person  who  might  set  up  a  claim  to  the  property,  the 
parties  in  possession  had  obtained  quitclaim  deeds.  Pat's 
second  wife  died  shortly  afterward  and,  later,  he  bought  the 
hotel  now  called  The  Weatherbee  House. 


"THE  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS"          407 

But  now,  the  story  related,  a  daughter  had  appeared  on 
the  scene  and  it  looked  very  much  as  though  the  property  in 
question  would  be  involved  in  litigation. 

Nancy  read  all  this  as  she  sat  in  the  police  court  wait- 
ing for  her  father  to  be  brought  in. 

She  did  not  try  to  understand  the  details.  She  did  not 
care  much.  The  sergeant  was  kind  to  her,  and  he  told  her 
that  her  father  would  have  to  be  brought  in  "to  plead,"  what- 
ever that  meant. 

One  thing  she  was  sure  about.  She  had  found  Burke, 
and  would  soon  be  able  to  start  home.  As  for  her  father, 
probably  he  knew  what  he  was  to  do.  Anyway,  she  did  not 
know.  She  had  heard  some  one  at  the  hotel  say  he  would 
be  out  in  a  day  or  two.  The  "City  Hall  crowd,"  according 
to  what  she  had  heard,  had  a  lot  of  "authority." 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  in  walked  Billy  Ki-Ki, 
followed  by  Cohen,  the  Jew.  Billy  had  a  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  and  for  a  moment  Nancy  thought  the  news  of  the 
tragedy  had  reached  New  Town,  and  had  brought  these 
friends  to  her  assistance;  then  she  realized  that  were  im- 
possible. 

"I  thought  we  would  find  you  here,"  Billy  said.  "We 
read  about  Burke  here  in  the  paper  as  we  were  coming  in 
on  the  train." 

"What  brought  you  to  San  Francisco — and  Mr. 
Cohen?"  she  inquired. 

Billy  looked  about  the  room  before  he  answered. 

"Where  is  Maidie?"  he  asked. 

"Maidie?"  she  cried;  "Maidie?    She  didn't  come." 

"But  you  sent  for  her?" 

"No,  no;  I  didn't;  no.  Isn't  she  home?  Isn't  she 
there?  Oh,  Billy!  What  is  it?"  She  grasped  his  arm 
and,  in  her  growing  excitement,  began  shaking  him;  for 


408  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

she  read  in  his  face  a  corroboration  of  a  terrible  truth  that 
began  to  dawn  upon  her.  The  girl !  The  rescue !  Larrabie ! 
Oh  yes ;  it  was  all  getting  plain  now — now ! — all — that — she 
— had — read  in  the  papers. 

Then  she  let  herself  slip  away  from  him;  for  every- 
thing was  black,  and  there  was  a  buzzing  in  her  ears. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Nancy  and  Billy  Ki-Ki  were  going 
up  a  street  toward  Barbary  Coast. 

"This  is  the  place,"  said  the  messenger  who  had  come 
with  them  from  the  police  court.  "She  is  upstairs." 

Nancy's  glance  went  to  the  black-lettered  sign  in  the 
window  of  the  Mission — to  which  she  had  been  led,  a  week 
ago,  a  welcome  haven,  indeed.  Then  they  followed  the  man 
up  the  stairs. 

A  young  woman  opened  the  door.  With  her  finger  at 
her  lips  she  glanced,  hesitatingly,  from  Nancy  to  Billy;  but 
the  messenger  went  on,  leading  them  into  a  small  cozily-fur- 
nished  parlor. 

"You  are  the  mother?"  she  said,  inquiringly,  taking 
Nancy's  hand  and  putting  an  arm  tenderly  about  her.  "She 
is  very  low;  but  God's  Spirit  is  with  us,  and  we  trust  in 
Him,  through  the  promises  of  Jesus." 

Nancy  could  utter  no  word.  She  only  looked  at  Billy, 
helplessly. 

He  stepped  to  her  side,  and  took  her  other  hand. 

"May  we  go  in?"  he  whispered. 

The  girl  bowed. 

"She  is  delirious ;  I  fear  she  will  not  know  you." 

She  pushed  aside  a  hanging  portiere  that  screened  the 
bed  and  drew  the  trembling  mother  through  the  arch.  Billy 
followed. 

Maidie's  eyes  were  closed  and  her  face  was  so  white 
among  the  thick  black  curls,  crushed  against  the  pillow,  that 


"THE  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS"          409 

Nancy  would  have  screamed  out  had  her  strength  not  left 
her. 

"Be  brave,  dear,"  whispered  the  nurse.  "She  has  lain 
just  as  you  see  her,  since  yesterday.  She  has  been  very, 
very  ill."  Nancy  fell  on  her  knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed 
and  pressed  her  lips  against  the  bared  arm  of  her  child. 

"Where  is  the  doctor?  What  does  he  say?"  Billy 
asked,  in  a  hushed  voice,  glancing  about  the  room. 

"God  is  our  Physician,"  the  young  woman  whispered. 
"He  is  always  with  us.  What  does  He  say?  He  sent  His 
Son  into  the  world  to  tell  us  that  God  alone  is  the  Healer 
of  every  sickness  and  every  affliction,  and  that  we  should 
have  no  other  gods  but  Him.  We  believe  in  Jesus,  and  in  his 
name  God  hears  and  heals.  Have  you  faith  in  God?  Do 
you  believe?"  The  big  man,  seeing  in  her  eyes  a  wonderful 
light  of  hope  and  faith  and  love,  could  only  bow  his  head. 

Nancy,  piteously  waiting,  sprang  up  with  a  low,  glad 
cry. 

"Oh,  Billy!  You  believe!  You  believe!  Oh,  Billy; 
God  will  hear  us !  God  must  hear  us !  Come,  pray !  pray  to 
God  !  quick !  for  me — for  Maidie !"  She  was  pulling  him 
to  the  bed,  pulling  him  down  on  his  knees  beside  her. 

"Oh  God,  hear  us!  O  God,  hear  us!  O  God!  O 
God!"  she  cried. 

The  form  on  the  bed  stirred ;  the  lips  formed  the  word, 
"Mamma,"  not  knowing  she  was  there. 

"O  God,  do  not  let  her  die !  She  is  my  all,  my  all !  O 
God,  hear  met  O  God,  hear  me!"  the  frantic  mother 
screamed;  and  the  big  man  by  her  side  buried  his  face  in 
the  bedclothes  and  sobbed. 

"Pray  with  me,  Billy!  Now,  with  me!  O  God,  save 
her!  O  God,  spare  her!" 


410  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Our  Father  which  art  in  heaven — "  he  was  praying, 
too.  It  was  the  prayer  he  used  to  say,  years  and  years  ago, 
when  a  boy.  Perhaps  he  had  never  known  another ;  he  only 
knew  it  was  a  prayer.  And  the  Father  in  heaven  was  wait- 
ing. 

"Oh  God,  hear  him !  Oh  God,  hear  him !"  the  mother 
cried,  in  the  agony  of  her  grief. 

"Thy  kingdom  come,  Thy  will  be  done — " 

"Thy  will  be  done — "  she  was  repeating  the  words. 

"Give  us  this  day — " 

"Give  us  each  day  our  daily  bread — "  another  voice 
had  joined  with  them,  the  voice  of  one  who  had  just  come 
in,  a  man  with  full  gray  beard  and  marvellous  eyes,  who 
stood  with  his  hands  stretched  out  over  the  white  bed,  as 
though  he  knew  just  where  God  was.  Rich  and  trusting 
and  full  of  assurance  came  the  voice  to  Nancy's  ears.  She 
felt  coming  into  her  heart  again  that  same  conquering  peace 
which  had  come  to  her,  a  week  ago,  in  the  Mission  down- 
stairs. 

There  was  a  moment's  stillness  as  the  last  words  of 
the  prayer  stole  out  through  the  open  window,  up  into  the 
heavens. 

The  man  knelt  down  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  sick 
girls'  head. 

"Heavenly  Father!  Through  Jesus,  thy  Son,  who  has 
promised  us  in  his  name  that  we,  who  believe  and  are  con- 
secrated to  serve  thee  with  all  our  hearts  and  with  all  our 
lives,  shall  save  the  dying  and  shall  raise  the  dead  to  life, 
hear  our  petition  now  for  the  girlhood  life  of  this  sweet 
child. 

"Unchanging  God !  Be  merciful  to  this  mother,  whose 
grief-stricken  heart  pleads  to  thee  in  blind  faith,  and  in 


"THE  SUN  OF  RIGHTEOUSNESS"  411 

hope,  and  prayer.  We  know  it  is  not  thy  will  that  this 
young  girl,  at  the  very  threshold  of  life,  should  pass  away 
in  death.  Hear  us,  now,  O  God!  And  in  accordance  with 
thy  will  and  believing  in  the  promises  of  thy  dear  Son, 
Jesus,  we  lay  these  hands  upon  her  in  his  name.  Let  Thy 
Holy  Spirit  come,  O  God,  and  make  her  well !" 

Again  all  was  still.  Nancy's  face  was  hidden  in  the 
quilt;  but  she  knew  that  Mr.  Raines  had  come  in  and  had 
knelt  at  Billy's  side. 

The  form  on  the  bed  moved.  Maidie  raised  a  hand  to 
her  face  and  drew  a  long,  deep  breath.  The  marvelous  eyes 
of  the  gray-bearded  man,  closely  watching,  turned  heaven- 
ward. 

"O  God,  we  thank  thee  for  the  precious  life  of  this  dear 
one !  Look  up,  my  child !  Your  mother  is  here  and  all,  all 
is  well." 

And  Nancy  knew  that  God  had  heard  and  answered. 

She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the  bright,  soulful  eyes  of  the 
man.  She  saw  a  light  hovering  about  him  that  spread  out 
into  the  room  and  fell  across  the  face  of  her  precious  child. 

"Mamma,  are  you  here?"  Maidie's  eyes  were  open,  and 
she  was  smiling  into  her  mother's  face. 

The  Sun  of  Righteousness  had  arisen  with  healing 
wings.  The  wonderful  light  streamed  in  through  the  un- 
shaded windows  and  drove  the  dark  angel  away. 

Nancy  Swallow,  at  last,  had  learned  why  God  was,  and 
is,  and  ever  will  be;  and  she  had  found,  for  herself,  the 
greatest  power  in  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  L 
SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"This  air  a  great  world !"  said  Hank,  pulling  the  boot 
from  Luke's  foot,  and  diving  among  a  lot  of  tools  for  some 
white  powder,  which  he  poured,  liberally,  inside.  "It  helps 
the  last  in  a  bit  easier,"  he  explained. 

"There'll  be  a  cyclone  hit  them  Eastern  land-grabbers," 
said  Luke,  resting  his  foot  on  the  edge  of  the  sawdust  box. 
"That  air  feller  war  the  feller,  sure  enough." 

"Wall,  it'll  do  the  Widder  Swallow  a  heap  more  good 
than  a  lot  o'  fellers  w'at's  galvantin'  round  the  kentry,  year's 
end  to  year's  end,"  said  Hank.  "Here  comes  Jim  Crawley, 
an'  ye  can't  run,  Luke,  'less  ye  go  kitin'  out  the  back  door 
with  one  boot  off  an'  one  boot  on,  as  they  tell  in  Christmas 
books."  It  had  always  been  Hank's  opinion,  freely  ex- 
pressed on  many  occasions  to  the  old  rancher,  that  Luke 
"orter  some  day  or  nother  git  a  change  o'  heart,  and  arsk 
Jim  to  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

This  morning  Crawley  saw  Luke  in  the  shop  and  passed 
by,  going  on  to  the  postoffice.  Hank  looked  at  Luke  and 
Luke  looked  at  Hank;  but  neither  spoke  for  a  time.  Pres- 
ently a  smile  began  to  twitch  Hank's  mouth. 

"Guess  Jim  saw  ye  had  yer  boot  off  an'  c'udn't  run,  an' 
he  didn't  want  to  have  the  best  o'  ye,"  he  said,  cutting  the 
thread  in  the  wrong  place.  But  Luke  made  no  answer. 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM  413 

"The  Jew  feller  came  back  yest'day,"  Hank  went  on. 
"Sez  as  how  he's  got  to  move  the  Channings  to  Frisco — old 
parson  an'  all.  He  ha'  brought  a  letter  from  Billy  Ki-Ki 
w'ich  ha'  got  'em  all  excited.  The  Jew  sez  as  how  the  girl 
war  tuk  sick  soon's  she  landed  in  Frisco.  Sho!  she  war 
like  a  lily  o'  the  valley  in  a  patch  o'  burdocks  an'  thistles 
w'en  she  struck  that  pile  o'  corruption.  The  feller  w'at  war 
here  arskin'  arter  'em — an'  come  to  think  on't,  it  war  a  bit 
curious  how  Billy  tuk  the  trail  fer  Frisco  on  a  jump  soon's 
he  heard  the  girl  war  gone." 

"W'at  girl  ye  talkin'  'bout,  Hank?" 

"Were  ye  been  fer  half  an  hour,  Luke?  I  war  speak- 
in'  o'  the  Widder  Swallow's  girl,  o'  course,  bein'  as  she  ha' 
been  Billy's  proteejay  since  her  pa  war  pizened.  De  Land 
sez  as  how  thar  came  near  bein'  some  doin's  in  Ellensburg 
deepo  a  couple  weeks  ago — same  time  that  feller  with  the 
patent  leathers  war  here.  De  Land  war  waitin'  fer  the 
east  local,  an'  nother  feller,  who  from  all  accounts  war  the 
Frisco  detective,  war  waitin'  for  same  train.  All  o'  a  sud- 
dint  the  door  opens  an'  who  comes  in  the  deepot  but  Billy. 
Minnit  he  sot  eyes  on  Frisco  he  outs  with  his  gun  an'  had 
Mister  Patentleathers  on  the  floor  beggin'  fer  his  life.  Some 
old  deal,  De  Land  sez,  back  in  the  states.  Wall,  the  feller 
begged  fer  mercy  like  all  git  out,  w'en  in  comes  the  west 
local,  an'  Billy  sez  to  the  feller :  'Git  up  ye  damn  dorg,  an' 
git!'  an'  Frisco  gits  out  like  a  house  afire;  leatways,  fast 
as  the  train  c'ud  take  him  'way  from  Billy's  weppin.  Next 
night  Billy  heerd  the  girl  war  gone,  an'  he  took  the  trail 
double  quick." 

"D'ye  think  'at  Jim  Crawley  ha'  done  fair  wit'  me  an' 
them  railroad  fellers,  bein'  how  he  an'  I  war  friends  ?"  Luke 
asked,  apparently  not  having  heard  a  word  of  what  Hank 
was  telling. 


414  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

"Wall,  Luke,  w'en  it  happened,  an'  I  fust  heard  o' 
Crawley's  coo-dee-taw,  as  De  Land  said  it  war,  I  said  as 
how  I  thought  it  served  ye  right,  Luke.  But  I  dunno.  Ye 
know  ye  war  allus  peckin'  at  Jim  'bout  his  old  scab  patch, 
now,  warn't  ye,  Luke?" 

"It  warn't  nothin'  more,  Hank;  now,  war  it?" 

"It  war  a  gold  mine,  I'm  thinkin',  Luke — leastways,  for 
Jim.  Who'd  ha'  done  different,  Luke  ?  Now,  man  to  man : 
who'd  a  done  diff erentwise  ?" 

Luke  spat  in  the  sawdust,  but  made  no  answer;  while 
Hank  hammered  away  on  a  thick  piece  of  leather. 

"D'ye  think  Jim  'ud  come  in  if  I  warn't  here,  Hank?" 
he  asked,  presently. 

"Dunno,"  said  Hank.    "Mebbe." 

"Dunno's  I've  got  anythink  much  agin  him,"  said  Luke 
after  a  moment,  talking  partly  to  himself. 

Hank  hammered  away  vigorously. 

"He  ha'  never  forgot  the  day  I  introjooced  him  to 
Betty,"  Luke  went  on  mumbling. 

Hank  got  his  face  down  in  his  tool-box  as  if  he  had 
suddenly  become  nearsighted. 

"He  war  an  ornery  lookin'  crittur  on  that  cayuse;  an' 
ye  orter  see  his  eyes  stick  out  w'en  he  sot  'em  on  Betty. 
That  war  a  happy  day  fer  Jim.  .  .  .  An'  he's  been  purty  hap- 
py since,  considerin'  he  war  sot  on  kids.  .  .  .  An'  them  war 
good  dinners,  no  sayin'  they  warn't.  .  .  .  Jim  ha'  never  for- 
got. .  .  .  Mebbe  I  wouldn't  ha'  done  differentwise.  Mebbe 
not." 

"Beats  all  I  can't  find  one !"  Hank  exclaimed,  though  he 
didn't  say  what;  and  Luke  never  knew  he  had  gone  out  till 
he  saw  him  coming  in  with  Jim  Crawley. 

Crawley  shook  hands  with  Luke  just  as  though  there 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM  415 

had  never  been  any  enmity.  Hank  stood  looking  on,  his 
eyes  glistening. 

"Wat  be  the  excitement  at  the  post  office,  Jim?"  he 
asked. 

"Two  things,"  said  Jim.  "Billy  is  married  to  the 
Widder  Swallow,  an'  they  be  gone  on  their  hunkymoon  to 
the  States,  takin'  the  gal  with  'em." 

"Ye  don't  tell!"  said  Hank.  "I  know'd  it  'ud  come 
some  day  or  'nother,  if  they  both  lived  long  enough.  But 
that  ain't  makin'  all  that  fuss.  Wat's  the  other  thing  ?" 

"Wall,  Hank,  from  hall  accounts  yure  mirakel  o' 
Jonah  an'  Daniel,  an'  the  fi'  thousan'  loves  o  bread  w'at  1  ,uke 
allus  said  c'udn't  ha'  been,  'count  o'  there  bein'  no  hovens 
fer  so  many  to  bake  in,  is  all  beat  to  death  by  w'at  'as  'ap- 
pened  right  under  yure  nose,  'ere  in  New  Town." 

"  'Bout  the  Gorin  ranch  bein'  the  Widder  Swallow's  ?" 
Luke  asked. 

"That  war  strange,  'specially  'bout  the  bloomin'  box," 
said  Crawley. 

"Wat  box?"  asked  Hank. 

"Ye  remember  the  night  old  man  Kirby  war  kilt?  I 
ain't  fergot  it,  fer  it  war  the  next  day  arter  I  struck  this 
'ere  town.  Wall,  afore  Nick  Maloney  goes  to  Hireland  fer 
that  scared-o-nothin'  sister  of  'is,  'e  comes  to  me  'ouse 
one  night,  an'  'e  sez  as  'ow  'e  'ad  a  bloomin'  box  w'at  'e  'ad 
found  the  night  Kirby  war  butchered.  Nick  sez  as  'ow  a 
spook  o'  a  dead  man  ha'  come  an'  woke  'im,  an'  ha'  took  'im 
to  the  old  coop  w'at  war  on  that  good-fer-nothin'  scab  land 
I  war  fool  henough  to  'ang  onto  harterwards.  'Take  a 
spade,'  sez  the  spook,  'an'  dig  fer  a  box  ye'll  find  thar.' 
Nick  ha'  dug  hout  the  bloomin'  thing,  an'  it  war  chuck  full 
to  the  top  o'  letters  an'  dockyments.  Nick  ha'  gi'n  'em  to 
me  afore  he  left,  an'  next  I  'ears  was  'ow  the  Jew  feller 


416  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

war  lookin'  fer  some  o'  Gorin's  heirs,  an'  I  shows  'im  the  box 
o'  papers.  'Weatherbee/  sez  'e,  readin'  one  o'  the  letters, 
'that's  the  name/  'e  sez,  'o'  Mis'  Swallow  w'en  she  war  a 
girl/  'e  sez.  That  feller,  Payne,  ha'  told  'im,  fer  'e  'ad 
known  Nancy  w'en  she  war  in  camp  with  her  father,  Pat 
Weatherbee,  who  ha'  helped  build  the  Central  Pacific  Rail- 
way. So  Mr.  Jew  'e  lights  hout  fer  Frisco,  'long  o'  Billy 
Ki-Ki." 

"Sho!"  exclaimed  Hank.  "That  ain't  knee  high  to  a 
grasshopper  to  the  mirackel  o'  Daniel,  an'  Jonah,  an'  sech. 
Who'd  say  that  c'udn't  ha'  happened?" 

"But  I  hain't  told  ye  w'at  the  mirackel  be,  yit,  Hank. 
Heath's  kid  w'at  war  crook'd  in  the  feet,  po'r  feller,  since  'e 
war  born,  can  walk  's  good  as  you  or  Luke  can — better'n 
Luke,  fer  the  kid  hain't  got  Luke's  rheumatiz." 

"Sho!  Ye  don't  mean  it?"  Hank  exclaimed,  dropping 
his  awl.  "That  c'udn't  ha'  happened !— c'ud  it,  Luke?" 

"Tell  me  how  it  c'udn't  an'  I'll  tell  ye  how  it  c'ud," 
Luke  chuckled. 

"Wall,"  Crawley  went  on,  "hit's  as  true  as  ye  air  a 
foot  'igh,  Hank.  It  'appens  as  'ow  the  lad  ha'  been  prayin' 
an'  ex'ortin'  like  hall  git  hout,  ever  since  that  helectric 
preacher  war  'ere  an'  'sot  the  village  by  the  hears/  as  Doc 
Carmel  sez.  Last  night,  or  the  night  afore,  'e  goes  to  Smith 
the  new  parson,  w'at  ha'  been  preachin'  about  devils,  an'  'e 
sez,  sez  'e,  'Ye  air  to  pray  fer  me/  'e  sez,  'like  it  sez  in  the 
scripture/  an'  ye  air  to  put  yer  'ands  on  me  feet/  'e  sez,  'as 
hit  sez  in  the  scriptur',  an'  me  feet'll  git  like  other  boys, 
sez  'e." 

"Sho !"  said  Hank.  "He  war  f uller'n  Job  o'  faith.  He 
ha'  told  me  more'n  a  week  ago  'bout  a  preacher  in  Frisco 
w'at  war  healin'  a  lot  o'  blind  an'  lame  people  in  same  way; 
an'  that  the  blind-woman  Brown's  boy  tuk  his  mother  thar 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM  417 

— an'  they  be  thar  yit's  fur's  I  know.  But  w'at  ha'  made 
Heath's  boy's  feet  straight,  Jim?" 

"Mirackel,"  said  Crawley,  solemnly.  "  'E  ha'  prayed, 
an'  the  parson  ha'  put  'is  'ands  on  the  boy,  but  nothin'  'ap- 
pened.  Then  the  parson  'a  prayed  agin,  an'  nothin'  'appened. 
Then  the  parson  'a  prayed  agin,  an'  nothin'  a  happened 
agin.  'Come  agin  tomorry,'  sez  the  parson,  'an'  bring  a  lee- 
tie  more  faith  with  ye,'  'e  sez,  mebbe,  though  I  hain't  swear- 
in'  as  to  that.  Wall,  this  mornin'  w'en  the  boy  wakes  hup, 
if  'is  bloomin'  feet  hain't  straight  as  any  fellers,  an'  Vs 
down  to  the  postoffice  walkin'  good's  any  feller  'is  size,  con- 
siderin*  'e  never  ha'  known  'ow  to  use  them  legs  prop'ly. 
'The  Lord  ha'  done  it,'  'e  sez." 

"Job  ha'  said  same  thing  w'en  he  war  tuk  down  with 
biles,"  said  Hank,  meditatingly.  "He  said  as  how  'the  Lord 
ha'  done  it!  The  Lord  ha'  done  it!'  Looks  like  the  Lord 
gits  the  blame  both  ways." 

"I  can't  believe  it!"  Luke  exclaimed,  limping  about  on 
his  bare  foot.  "He  must  ha'  took  some  'lectric  treatment, 
or  suthink." 

"Dunno,"  said  Crawley.  "Doc  Carmel  sez  as  'ow  'is 
pills  ha'  done  it,  fer  he  gi'n  the  boy  some  a  year  or  two  ago. 
They're  jest  workin',  Doc  sez.  Jedge  Lattimer  sez  as  'ow 
hippytizin'  ha'  done  it.  The  Jedge  sez  'e's  suspected  fer  a 
long  time  the  new  parson  be  a  hippytizer,  w'at  hever  the 
bloomin'  'ell  it  be.  Old  Parson  Swallow  ha'  agreed  wit'  'im, 
an'  sez  as  'ow  the  prayin'  parson  orter  be  run  hout  o'  New 
Town  'fore  'e  gits  to  hippytizin'  some  o'  the  gals.  Looks  to 
me  's  if  the  old  parson  air  greatly  put  hout  fer  not  knowin' 
the  ways  o'  the  Lord." 

"Wall,  it  be  'cordin'  to  scriptur',  as  I  rekerlect  it,"  said 
Hank,  getting  his  Bible  out  from  the  drawer  under  his  seat. 
Since  the  vears  had  brought  the  snow  into  the  shoemaker's 


418  SONS  OF  ELOHIM 

hair  and  stubbly  beard,  he  had  been  getting  closer  to  the 
Book  of  books. 

"Wat  do  it  say?"  Luke  asked,  chewing  hard. 

The  two  old  friends  looked  over  his  shoulder  while  he 
read  from  the  sixteenth  chapter  of  Mark,  beginning  at  the 
seventeenth  verse: 

"These  signs  shall  follow  them  that  believe:  In 
my  name  shall  they  cast  out  demons ;  they  shall  speak 
with  new  tongues;  they  shall  take  up  serpents,  and 
if  they  drink  of  any  deadly  thing,  it  shall  in  no  wise 
hurt  them;  they  shall  lay  hands  on  the  sick  and  they 
shall  recover." 

"But  that  ha'  been  most  two  thousand  years  afore  they 
got  doctors  like  we  got,"  said  Crawley. 

"Ye  be  wrong,  Jim!"  said  Hank,  turning  the  pages. 
"It  sez  here,  'A  woman  ha'  been  sick  twelve  years  an'  suf- 
fered from  the  doctors,  who  tuk  all  she  had,  an'  she 
war  worse'n  she  war  afore.  She  jest  teched  the  Lord,  and 
she  war  healed  quicker'n  ye  can  say  'scat !'  " 

"But  that  war  the  Lord,  Hank.  Ye  don't  say  as  ye 
c'ud  do  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  done,  Hank  ?" 

"Wall,  Jim  I  hain't  said  as  I  c'ud  do  it,  but  here's  w'at 
it  says  'bout  that,  now.  Listen  w'at  it  sez,  Luke.  'He  that 
b'lieveth  on  me,  the  things  that  I  do,  shall  he  do  also,  an' 
greater  things  than  these  shall  he  do.' " 

"Sho  now.  Don't  the  preachers  hever  read  that, 
Hank?"  Jim  asked. 

"I  reckon  they  don't  say  it  loud  enough  fer  anyone  to 
hear,"  said  Hank. 

"Be  that  in  all  yure  Bibles,  Hank  ?"  Luke  asked. 

"Guess  it  be,"   said   Hank. 

"I  never  heard  o'  it  afore,"  Crawley  declared. 

"They  don't  preach  much  'bout  them  texts  anymore, 


SONS  OF  ELOHIM  419 

these  days.  But,  shol  I  never  go  to  church,"  said  Hank 
"Wat's  the  use?'  w'en  ev'ry  preacher's  got  his  own  pecoo- 
liar  way  o'  tellin'  w'at  the  Lord  ha'  meant  by  w'at  He  sez° 
This  curin'  o'  the  way  the  scriptur'  sez,  never  will  git  pop'lar 
here,  nohow ;  f  er  the  Lord  ha'  got  too  much  competition.  No 
one'll  say  the  Lord  ha'  done  it.  The  old  man  Swallow 
won't  b'lieve  the  Lord  ha'  done  it,  much  as  he'd  like  to  git 
shut  o'  the  as'ma  the  doctor  sez  he's  got." 

"Do  the  scriptur'  say  anythink  'bout  rheumatiz,  Hank  ?" 
Luke  asked,  as  he  got  into  his  boot,  not  seeing  the  work 
was  only  partially  done. 

"Dunno;  mebbe,"  said  Hank.  He  began  wrapping  the 
Bible  up  in  a  piece  of  newspaper. 

"Luke,  ye  must  go  'ome  with  me  to  supper,"  said  Craw- 
ley,  slipping  his  hand  into  that  of  the  old  ranchman.  "Betty'd 
be  powerful  glad  to  see  ye.  She  ha'  been  askin'  fer  ye  fer  a 
long  time  back." 

As  the  two  men  started  away  together  Hank  called  to 
Luke.  The  latter  stopped  and  the  shoemaker  slipped  a 
package  in  his  hand. 

"Ye'll  find  a  lot  o'  things  in  it,  Luke,  w'at  ye  don't  hear 
'bout  now-a-days  in  the  churches.  But  I  ha'  read  it  from 
end  to  end,  an'  now's  I  remember,  I  never  found  any  place 
w'ere  it  sez  ye  sh'ud  take  medicine  fer  rheumatiz.  Mebbe 
ye  can  find  it,  Luke.  Mebbe.  An'  then,  agin,  mebbe  not." 

"Thankee,"  said  Luke. 


POSTSCRIPT 

The  complete  plot  of  "Sons  of  Elohim"  was  conceived 
and  written  by  Mr.  Burnette  in  1900-1902.  No  new  charac- 
ters have  been  brought  into  the  story;  and  the  closing  chap- 
ters, "The  Gray  Wolf,"  "The  Wolf  and  the  Lamb,"  "The 
Miracle  Man,"  "The  End  of  the  Trail"  and  the  "Sun  of 
Righteousness"  remain  practically  word  for  word  as  they 
appear  in  the  original  draft  of  the  story,  in  our  possession. 

We  feel  this  explanation  is  pertinent,  as  many  readers 
may  recall  scenes  and  characters,  in  recent  plays,  almost 
identical  with  the  scenes  and  characters  originated  by  the 
author  of  "Sons  of  Elohim"  twenty  years  ago. 

THE  PUBLISHERS. 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

Return  this  material  to  the  library 

from  which  it  was  borrowed. 


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